










































































































< 









COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 


























t 


V 







The Child at Home 


I 


The Child at Home 


'Ey 

Cynthia ^Asquith 



tN^ew York 

Charles Scribner s Sons 
1 9 2 3 







Copyright, 1923, by Charles Scribner's Sons 


Printed in the United States of A merica 


H 

.A? 




AUG 28 '23 

©C1A711G83 




Qontents 

PAGE 

I. 

Introduction . 

. . 1 

II. 

Choosing a Nurse .... 

. . 9 

III. 

The Nursery . 

. . 25 

IV. 

At Table . 

. . 36 

V. 

In “Mother s Day Nursery” 

. . 46 

VI. 

Visitors . 

. . 56 

VII. 

Reading Aloud . 

. . 68 

VIII. 

Condemned to Town .... 

. . 80 

IX. 

Learning to Read .... 

. . 89 

X. 

Going for a Walk .... 

. . 100 

XI. 

Pets . 

. . 110 

XII. 

In the Dark . . . . ♦ . 

. . 118 

XIII. 

At the Seaside . 

. . 129 

XIV. 

My Own Garden . 

. . 144 

XV. 

A Few Inexpensive Delights 

. . 152 















CONTENTS 


PAGE 

XVI. The First Theatre .164 

XVII. At the Zoo .174 

XVIII. A Day in the Train .... 183 

XIX. Shopping .193 

XX. Dressing Up .201 

XXL A Children's Tarty .209 

XXII. The Family Doctor .218 

XXIII. Good-Byes .228 

XXIV. Grandparents .235 

XXV. The Dowager Baby .242 

XXVI. “Getting Big” .251 

XXVII. Their Photographs .260 

XXVIII. The Children's Chronicle ... 269 













The Child at Home 


“No man can tell but he that loves his children , how 
many delicious accents make a man's heart dance in 
the 'pretty conversation of these dear pledges: their 
childishness , their stammering, their little angers , their 
innocence , their imperfections , their necessities are so 
many little emanations of joy and comfort to him that 
delights in their persons and society; but he that loves 
not his wife and children, feeds a lioness at home , and 
broods a nest of sorrow." —Jeremy Taylor. 


I 

INTRODUCTION 


This small book on a large subject makes 
no pretence to embody any comprehensive sys¬ 
tem for the general upbringing of children. 

Far from being a “Mother’s Manual/’ it 
contains no expert advice as to the requisite 
numbers of either physical or mental vitamines 
and calories. Hints on health and education 
have crept in, but its pages will be found 
entirely devoid of dogmas on diet, clothing, 
and education. 

It is mainly a collection of impressions of 
certain scenes and situations in childhood, 
derived from simultaneous efforts to remember 
the past and to observe the present. For 
evidence, I have peered through the mists at 
my own infancy, and stared at the children 
around me. Having tried to see “grown-ups” 
with the eyes of childhood, and children with 
the eyes of a “grown-up,”—from the mental 
confusion of the blended vision, I now venture 
[ 1 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

to falter forth a few words of occasional diag¬ 
nosis and prescription. 

Many of my random suggestions will be 
found to refer to the great importance of one 
particular part of the parent's function, that 
which consists, in what may be called, the 
editing of life. The profitable “fun,” so ob¬ 
vious that it may be overlooked, to be got 
out of many of the quite commonplace in¬ 
cidents in the lives of mother and child is 
enlarged on, and hints are given as to how to 
drain the utmost drop of honey from flowers 
accessible to all, and, at the same time, how 
best to neutralize the poison from such stings 
as are inevitable. For the truism, “There's 
nothing either good or bad but thinking makes 
it so,” is supremely applicable to childhood. 

Infinite the “grown-up person's” power of 
suggestion and dramatization. Owing to mis¬ 
handling, how many treats go wrong and 
become ordeals! Not only should there be 
no such sad miscarriage, but on the contrary, 
under skilful editing, how easily are necessary 
trials actually converted into treats! 

Does not the skilful mother (by encouraging 
the display of courage) know how to turn 
[ 2 ] 


INTRODUCTION 

actual pain into something very like pleasure, 
while, in the hands of an equally well-meaning 
bungler, even a picnic may become a penance. 
Endless the scope for ingenuity, both in the 
dodging, or rather transmuting, of the dis¬ 
agreeable, and in the dramatizing—by de¬ 
liberately dwelling on it—of the delightful. 
No futile denial of pain and difficulty is advo¬ 
cated. By all means acknowledge the ad¬ 
jacency of the thorn, but prove the rose a 
reward well worth the prick. You cannot 
level hills, but you can teach the enjoyment of 
effort. 

The possession of a child is the biggest 
investment life offers. Immense the inevi¬ 
table dividends of joy and sorrow. In the 
interests of wholesome hedonism, a mother’s 
obligations to herself, as well as to her chil¬ 
dren, cannot be too strongly insisted on. 
Since you are doomed to pangs untold of grief 
and anxiety, see to it that at least you forego 
none of your perquisites of enjoyment and 
amusement. 

Remember that you will never, on any occa¬ 
sion, be able to impart the maximum of fun 
unless you yourself share in it. Drain every 
[3] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 


drop of the sweet as well as the bitter. Don't 
appreciate the pathos of children and miss 
their equally endearing comicality. Always 
get your laugh, as a mother, as well as your 
cry. 

Some parents seem so preoccupied by the 
staggering responsibility of having sentenced 
human beings to life, that they appear to lose 
sight of any lighter side of their vocation— 
missing, as it were, the comic relief of the situ¬ 
ation. Better, no doubt, than the other 
extreme of forgetting the trust in the toy: 

“A child’s a plaything for an hour; 

Its pretty tricks we try 
For this or for a longer space; 

Then tire and lay it by.” 

But if, indeed, there be any parents of this 
school, no use in assailing such platitude- 
proof ears with propaganda. Of course it is 
impossible to take the office of parent too 
seriously, but it is equally impossible to take 
it too gaily. 

It is by making the most of all the trivial 
jokes and joys, as well as of the trials and 
troubles of childhood, in order to cultivate 
courage, love and fun, that you will, day by 
[4] 


INTRODUCTION 


day, be forging the best armour and weapons 
for your children’s encounter with those “slings 
and arrows of outrageous Fortune” you so 
deeply dread. 

Never exploit your children for your enter¬ 
tainment, but do not omit to make full use of 
their invaluable alchemic power of restoring 
to you the “visionary gleam—the glory and 
the freshness of a dream.” Their lovely 
reOpen Sesame gifts should never be wasted. 
Suffer their hands to fling “magic casements” 
open wide and, with them, look through in 
gratitude and joy. 

In connection with happiness, I have espe¬ 
cially dwelt on one point. I often hear mothers, 
quite able to afford adequate food and atten¬ 
tion, lamenting their lack of money on the 
grounds that their children will miss so much 
in the way of enjoyment. How morbid are 
any such misgivings! 

To alleviate the sufferings of illness, wealth 
is undeniably of service, but to enhance the 
enjoyments of health, it is, thank goodness, 
superfluous. The “fun and gladness” re¬ 
cipes in this book are for the most part acces¬ 
sible to the slenderest incomes. To feed, 
[5] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

clothe, and educate children is, alas, crush- 
ingly expensive, but to entertain them is matter 
of time, trouble and talent, not of money. 
Consider a child’s gift of ecstasy, and ask 
yourself if it is not a very incompetent mother 
who will make the lack of wealth an excuse for 
a healthy son faltering in his “great task of 
happiness.” Are not most of his principal 
pleasures free as the air he breathes ? 

This is not to deny that such luxuries as 
ponies, motor-cars and journeys are intoxi¬ 
cating delights to a child; but since his cup of 
bliss can so easily be made to overflow without 
any such costly catering, why worry about the 
lack of it ? 

No child need be docked of a single one 
of his birthright of laughs through the lack of 
expensive pleasures. His is the art, with the 
minimum of straw, to create the maximum of 
bricks. 

There was once a so-called “madman,” who, 
dying in an asylum, left a strangely beautiful 
document called his “Last Will and Testa¬ 
ment,” from which I quote the following 
extract: 

“I give to good fathers and mothers, in trust 

[ 6 ] 


INTRODUCTION 


for their children, all good little words of praise 
and encouragement, all quaint pet names and 
endearments, and I charge the said parents to 
use them generously as the needs of the children 
require. I leave the children, for the term of 
their childhood, the flowers, fields, blossoms, 
and woods, with the right to play among them 
freely, warning them at the same time against 
thistles and thorns. 

“I devise to the children the banks, the 
brooks and the golden sands beneath waters 
thereof, and the white clouds that float high 
over the giant trees, and I leave to the children 
long, long days to be merry in, and the night 
and the moon, and the train of the Milky Way 
to wonder at. . . . 

“I devise to the boys jointly all the useful 
idle fields, all the streams where one may fish 
or where, when grim winter comes, one may 
skate, all the pleasant waters where one may 
swim, to have and to hold the same for the 
period of their boyhood. The meadows, with 
the clover, blossoms and butterflies thereof, 
the woods and their appurtenances, squirrels, 
birds, echoes and strange noises, all the distant 
places which may be visited, together with the 
[7] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 


adventures there found. I give to the said 
boys each his own place by the fireside at night, 
with all the pictures that may be seen in the 
burning wood, to enjoy without let or hindrance 
and without any encumbrance or care. ,, 


II 


CHOOSING A NURSE 

“0//, what did the other children do? 

And what were childhood wanting you?” 

R. L. Stevenson. 

I often hear people express amazement at 
a mother’s willingness to hand her baby over 
to a professional nurse. “How can she,” they 
exclaim, “bear even temporarily to relinquish 
the first place in her own child’s life ?” “How 
unnatural thus to forego all the daily delights 
of that delicious dawning!” “Imagine allow¬ 
ing another woman to tend and soothe one’s 
own baby—thus, to a great extent, monopo¬ 
lizing the first harvest of budding response, and 
the earliest tributes of incipient love.” “To 
think that his first trust should be in another’s 
arm, his first silver tinklings of talk fall on 
other ears!” . . . 

“Who ran to catch me when I fell, 

And kissed the place to make it well ? ” 

Certainly to forfeit the right to answer 
“Mother” to that poignant little query must 
[9] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

cost a pang to any woman with a sense of the 
picturesque. 

And yet, believe me, it is a pang that should 
be borne. In the first transport of baby- 
worship, some young mothers, determined 
against any such delegation, resolve to brook 
no rival in their nursery, and to devote them¬ 
selves body and soul to unintermittent mini¬ 
strations. However understandable, this is. 
I’m sure, in most cases a shortsighted policy. 
If you are able to afford a good nurse, my 
advice is, by all means avail yourself of the 
best you can find. 

Natural enough the wish to earn your own 
child’s love, by yourself embracing all the toil. 
But remember that the proper care of a baby 
is so exacting a task that it demands complete 
dedication. Take a bird’s-eye view of your 
career as a mother. Unless you are an ex¬ 
tremely exceptional woman, will you not, by 
refusing to delegate duties an expert would 
perform better, be handicapping, if not dis¬ 
qualifying, yourself for the important work 
of later phases ? 

Through tackling the “sole charge” ambi¬ 
tion, you may become competent, adequately 
[ 10 } 


CHOOSING A NURSE 

to supply the relatively impersonal needs of 
infancy, but what sort of an existence will you 
yourself be leading ? 

Constantly occupied and tired, how will you 
find the necessary leisure for self-equipment 
as a satisfactory companion to a son who has 
outgrown the nursery ? Can you afford thus 
to specialize ? Will it not be to risk partial 
atrophy of other faculties he will need in you 
when he is older ? 

Hard that it should be so, but unquestion¬ 
ably, if you entirely sacrifice your own life to 
his babyhood, you run grave risk of failing him 
later on. You are, as it were, laming yourself 
before he is ready for the walk on which he 
really needs you. 

If you appear to have no object in life than 
to be a background to him, he will accept the 
situation and love you with the comfortable 
love of custom, but each step of development 
will tend to be away from, rather than towards 
you. Don't cut yourself down to fit one fleet¬ 
ing phase. Be something to be grown up to, 
not out of, like the perambulator and the 
rocking-horse. 

To be of the best use to your child, it is 

[ 11 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

essential that you cling to an independent life 
and interests and breathe a distinct atmosphere 
of your own with a glamour he will appreciate. 
You must have friends to bequeath, knowl¬ 
edge to impart, be able to initiate him into 
the realms of books, pictures and outdoor 
life. 

To qualify as his interpreter, to make your¬ 
self his fit guide, philosopher and friend, de¬ 
mands time and energy which will inevitably 
be squandered if you concentrate on the care of 
his body during those critical years, when you 
should still be building your own boat on the 
shore, so as to be able to accompany him as 
far as possible in his navigation of life. 

Do not—for the indulgence of shortsighted 
love or at the dictates of jealousy—do yourself 
and him the injustice of thus stunting your 
growth, diminishing your horizon and expend¬ 
ing your capital. 

All this is, of course, not to say that it is 
impossible for a mother to fulfil each several 
function in turn. There are women capable 
of, so to speak, cooking every course, but very 
exceptional strength, energy and talent are 
required. 


[ 12 ] 


CHOOSING A NURSE 

Better not jump to the conclusion that you 
happen to be so endowed. 

Having weighed the pros and cons, and from 
worthy, unworthy or mixed motives, decided 
in favour of having a nurse, what a difficult 
choice lies in front of an inexperienced mother! 
One of my recurring astonishments is the cas¬ 
ualness with which some women will engage a 
nurse. They would not dream of settling on 
a cook without making more exhaustive in¬ 
quiries, and to decide between two chintzes or 
three hats would worry them far more. Is it 
that they despair of realizing their ideal, or is 
it possible that they underrate the importance 
of a nurse’s function ? 

Surely there can be no more difficult and 
momentous choice than that of the woman in 
whose favour we, to a certain extent, abdicate 
our own responsibility, by entrusting her with 
the daily care of our children. How fortunate 
the mother who, at the outset, finds one who 
will be able to stay the course, sufficing for all 
the different stages of infancy. 

Many women change nurses repeatedly and 
lightheartedly. With some this is even a mat- 
113 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

ter of policy. They may be afraid of the 
children growing too dependent on the one 
person and suffering too much when separation 
becomes inevitable, and sometimes, I fear, the 
motive is the unworthy one of jealousy. Per¬ 
haps the nurse's holiday is being discussed and 
some such childish phrase as “But who will 
save me then?" makes the mother wince and 
arouses dog-in-the-manger instincts. 

To remit the toil and still to claim unrivalled 
love is unreasonable and unfair. A mother 
who, while accepting a nurse's unstinted de¬ 
votion, grudges her a full measure of love, even 
though it temporarily ousts herself from the 
first place in her own child's heart, is, by base 
ingratitude, qualifying to be a warning rather 
than an example to her children. 

I am sure the shifting influences of a nursery 
in a constant state of flux must be bewildering 
and bad for children. If there be a nurse at 
all, the ideal is that she should be a rock of trust 
and love, fixed and secure in the child’s world. 

Quite apart from the child's own interests, 
is it not too hard that such complete dedication 
as is exacted (no hour in the twenty-four can 
a nurse truly call her own) should yet be form- 
[ 14 ] 


CHOOSING A NURSE 


ing no roots ? Think of it. To be the unre¬ 
mitting “slave of the lamp” from dawn to 
dusk, and all the while only to sow what others 
shall reap. 

Too often the beloved ministering giantess 
of babyhood is only a source of painful em¬ 
barrassment when, years after, she comes to 
tea and finds herself a stranger where she once 
so patiently presided. 

In common gratitude, mothers should strive 
to keep her memory green and, when the re¬ 
lationship is permanently continued, as in the 
classical case of Robert Louis Stevenson, it 
adds greatly to the beauty and wealth of life. 

To return to the choice. Experienced 
mothers, never away from home, may only re¬ 
quire some one on whom they can implicitly 
rely for the carrying out of orders; but those, 
whom circumstances compel to delegate their 
daily duties, have a terrible responsibility in 
choosing a steward for so solemn a trust. What 
type of woman should be selected ? The im¬ 
portance of health, voice and manner are ob¬ 
vious, but what qualities of heart and mind 
are required ? 

It must be remembered that, to a large ex- 
[ 15 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

tent, she will be responsible for their growth, 
their nervous system, their manners, their 
religion, for it is impossible to exaggerate the 
importance of the way in which life is first 
edited to children. It is hers to instil the 
prejudices, fears, loves, faiths which count for 
so much, to determine their diet—physical, 
mental and spiritual—in short, largely to sow 
such harvest as they will be reaping for the 
whole of their lives. How difficult to find 
everything you want in one person! 

The woman who would be the best for their 
curls may be the worst for their character. 
The one with the nicest mind may be disas¬ 
trously lacking in method. Humour and hy¬ 
giene are, alas! not inseparable. But the 
paragon who has the right instincts plus the 
best training does exist, and infinite trouble 
should be taken to find her. 

She will be scrupulously, pedantically exact 
in the care of bottles, etc., with the hospital 
standard of cleanliness and order, and at the 
same time imaginative, elastic and unstereo¬ 
typed in the care of natures. 

It is hers “to warn, to comfort and com¬ 
mand,” to nourish their bodies and fancies, to 
[ 16 ] 


CHOOSING A NURSE 

be a shining example of courage, sweetness and 
humour—teaching them their “great task of 
happiness”—to guard without coddling, to 
love without spoiling, to control without 
cramping. 

How difficult it is to know what is really 
going on in the nursery (surely the one sphere 
where eavesdropping is permissible!). Few 
children—even if they know there is a tale to 
tell—will have the nerve to tell it. They do 
not understand the relative position of nurse 
and parents, and would sooner imagine the sun 
and moon to be subject to dismissal than the 
despot of the nursery. Children, stricken and 
stupefied under the sway of fear, suffer in 
silence, day by day painfully tying knots for 
the psychoanalyst’s future unravelling. 

Added to the dangers of silence they may 
genuinely love a very harmful nurse. Chil¬ 
dren are naturally fond of whoever tucks them 
up in bed. It is difficult to dodge their affec¬ 
tion in close proximity; besides, the best mean¬ 
ing nurse might, alas! be the most injurious. 

Much difference of opinion exists as to how 
much of a disciplinarian the nurse should be. 
Rather idle, fair-weather parents sometimes 
[ 17 } 


THE CHILD AT HOME 


rejoice in the idea that they may leave all the 
correcting and stiffening in the hands of a 
martinet upstairs, who will serve as a foil to all 
the indulgence and fun downstairs. I once 
heard a mother say she would definitely prefer 
a harsh and disagreeable nurse to harden her 
children and make it unnecessary for her to 
leaven their paradise. 

Many mothers dread “soft-handling” for 
their children. They think that to be too 
much lapped in love, is to be morally coddled 
—like being brought up in a hothouse, and 
made hypersensitive to the east winds of the 
outside world, into which, sooner or later, they 
must emerge—too misleading an atmosphere 
to be good preparation for life. But where 
happiness is concerned, most will favour the 
bird in the hand. Childhood should be joyous, 
and, after all, surely the great thing is to lay a 
solid foundation of love and confidence! 

I do not see how a nurse could be too loving; 
but, of course, she can be too indulgent, and by 
keeping one who really “spoils” (in the sense 
of demoralizing) the children, you are indeed 
pickling a rod for your own back. 

Good habits must be inculcated, standards 

[ 18 ] 


CHOOSING A NURSE 

set and adhered to. There should be no 
bribery—that leverage of the lazy. Virtue 
should really seem its own rich reward. The 
most incompetent nurses govern by alternate 
threats and bribes. It is difficult to judge the 
soundness of a system of discipline by im¬ 
mediate results. Good conduct is not neces¬ 
sarily a criterion. Mere control over their 
behaviour without any real character training 
may be very unsatisfactory, the nurse’s tem¬ 
porary absence often having the effect of un¬ 
damming a stream. To tie their hands is not 
to teach them self-control. As early as pos¬ 
sible a child’s reason should be enlisted, and 
as often as is convenient he could be told why 
it is he must do this and not do that. Too 
many mechanical instructions and prohibitions 
retard the growth of initiative and judgment, 
and when practicable it is better to suggest a 
course, rather than to be for ever suppressing 
a child’s own plans. Positives are a much 
more wholesome diet than negatives. There 
should certainly be more “Do’s” than “Don’ts” 
in a nurse’s vocabulary, and one who is con¬ 
stantly nagging will either irritate children’s 
nerves or thicken their skins. 

[ 19 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

The golden rule of discipline, and one as to 
the preservation of which a mother should be 
assured, is that any order that is given must be 
enforced. Don't leave it to the child to decide 
which order is meant to be obeyed or what 
disaster may ensue! 

Scolding and punishment must, as far as 
possible, be according to intention rather than 
results. Many nurses will be inconsistent in 
treatment, depending on the temporary state 
of their nerves or how busy they happen to be 
at the time of the offence. The demoralizing 
leniency of the day on which “Nannie had got 
out of bed the right way" will be remembered. 
Children are quick as lawyers to seize on in¬ 
convenient precedents. 

Any form of indolence is, of course, incom¬ 
patible with the office of nurse. There are so 
many tempting short cuts which must be firmly 
resisted. It is, for instance, so much less 
trouble to dress and feed a child than to teach 
him to do things for himself, but a nurse's 
quickness in encouraging independence is one 
of the chief tests of her competency. Children 
should also, however tedious the process, be 
taught to put their own toys away, to care for 
[ 20 ] 


CHOOSING A NURSE 


them and to try and mend them—however 
worthless—when broken. 

Overweening pride in her charge is some¬ 
times a pitfall to the devoted nurse. Her com¬ 
petitive spirit may prompt him to premature 
walking at the price of bandy legs, and her 
delight in his mental precocity encourage her 
to over-stimulation, the dangers of which are 
great and insidious. 

For all the importance of morals and man¬ 
ners, the wise care of the health remains in 
most families the crowning anxiety. Many 
nervous mothers pin their faith on nurses with 
hospital training, but I am not sure that here 
the tendency is not rather to regard childhood 
as an illness. Ordinary “Nannies” can be 
unsurpassed in the care of health. See that 
you have found one who will not try to dose 
appendicitis away, and whom you can rely on 
to send for the doctor whenever necessary, but 
who at the same time will not “Coue” her 
charges into colds by telling them of incurred 
draughts. The power of suggestion over chil¬ 
dren, physically, mentally and morally, can 
scarcely be exaggerated. From the youngest 
age upwards, a child who has slightly hurt 


THE CHILD AT HOME 


himself can be made to laugh or cry according 
to the tone of voice in which you speak to 
him. Over-commiseration opens the flood-gates. 
Cheerfulness reassures him. 

Similarly any form of pessimistic labelling is 
very injurious. Such phrases as “It’s no use, 
he won’t do what he’s told,” “The poor child 
simply can’t get to sleep,” induce a disastrous 
form of fatalism. There must be no Christian 
resignation in the face of faults, no patient 
acceptance of disabilities as if they were all 
destiny-dealt. 

It is, of course, indispensably important that 
mother and nurse should be complete allies. 
Some nurses seem to regard the mother as their 
natural enemy, or at best as a foolish elder 
sister of the children. No child should ever 
be allowed to catch a glimpse of anything so 
ugly as jealousy, and there must be complete 
co-operation and mutual backing-up. Allow 
the' trusted nurse a free hand in the ordering 
of nursery routine, but never give up your 
own right of free access. I have known 
nurses claim the right to issue “no admittance” 
edicts. 

No conflict of opinion between the govern- 

[ 22 ] 


CHOOSING A NURSE 

ing bodies must be discussed in the children’s 
presence. Once let them realize they can 
appeal from nurse to mother and vice versa , 
and discipline goes out sighing. 

Neither should a child’s doings and sayings 
ever be reported in front of him. Repetition 
of his witticisms will stifle future ones in self- 
consciousness or promote painful playing to 
the gallery. A recital of his misdemeanours 
will make him feel unduly important, and if 
his punishment be discussed, how dreadful 
the doomed dignity he will assume! Every 
mother should make a practice of seeing her 
nurse alone for a few minutes each evening. 
Apart from any requisite diagnosis or pre¬ 
scription, she is sure to be bursting with eager¬ 
ness to relate the nursery chronicles of the day, 
and to the mother of her charges an appreci¬ 
ative nurse makes the best company in the 
world. 

A friend of mine congratulated herself on the 
possession of a nurse who read Bernard Shaw. 
Personally I do not want “Kultur” in my nur¬ 
sery. The peasant type still rather near to 
Nature, from whose heart, like flowers from 
the soil, the great truths (afterwards to be 
[ 23 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 


derided as platitudes) will spontaneously spring, 
may be expected, I think, to provide the most 
wholesome and enjoyable food for children’s 
minds. 


THE NURSERY 

“And infants clamorous , whether pleased or pained” 

COWPER. 

If a motner, a child and his nurse could 
each in turn be given the use of a magic wand, 
I wonder how much their tastes would coin¬ 
cide in the creation of their three ideal nur¬ 
series ? 

I don’t believe there would be any great 
incompatibility in their desires, and to give 
each the utmost satisfaction circumstances per¬ 
mit, should be the ambition of every mother. 

Probably one of the dreams most frequently 
put away, is that of the visualized nursery of a 
mother’s imagination. 

Sheer size entering so largely into the pic¬ 
ture, very few of us are destined to be able to 
realize our ideal; but, by ingenuity, a great 
deal may be done to make the available space 
as attractive and as convenient as possible. 

Fortunately children’s spirits are gloriously 
independent of their surroundings, but the 
[ 25 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

fact of their daily lives being adequately well- 
staged makes an enormous difference to their 
nurse’s task, and consequently to her nerves 
and temper. 

Owing to the want of a little forethought 
and imagination in the original equipment of 
their premises, how heavily handicapped some 
nurses are in the cheerful execution of their 
daily duties. From dawn to dusk their prog¬ 
ress is a continual obstacle race, in which 
they are assailed by wholly unnecessary dis¬ 
comforts of every kind—bad lighting, avoid¬ 
able draughts and unsuitable furniture. All 
the labour and space-saving devices which now 
abound are neglected, and it seems made as 
difficult as possible for them to keep their 
rooms clean and what they call “straight.” 

Naturally all concerned would prefer more 
space than is usually available. You cannot 
have too much room for romping purposes, 
and who can have forgotten that particular 
ecstasy of childhood experienced in a passage 
large enough to really let yourself go in ? Few 
houses afford such scope, but the disappoint¬ 
ing size of nursery quarters is too often taken 
as an excuse to fling away ambition and re- 
[ 26 ] 


THE NURSERY 


signedly acquiesce in dulness and discomfort. 
Mere size is not the determining factor, for by 
the ingenious choice and arrangement of fur¬ 
niture, so much—so very much—can be done 
to make the most of insufficient space. 

As for the children, they can be bounded in 
a nutshell and count themselves kings of in¬ 
finite space. 

Of all the adjectives they might hear applied 
to their quarters, that of small would probably 
surprise them the most. It takes a good many 
toddling steps to traverse the shortest of rooms, 
and to eyes so near the ground, everything 
looms large. Most of us, in revisiting some 
house only known to childhood, have experi¬ 
enced the shock of finding remembered rooms 
so strangely shrunk. 

Ruskin’s dictum, that nothing should be 
admitted save what “you know to be useful, 
and believe to be beautiful,” is too sweeping; 
but naturally the amount of furniture in the 
nursery should be very limited, and ought not 
to include anything too heavy to be frequently 
pulled out for sweeping purposes. 

In some families there is a regrettable tend¬ 
ency to use the nursery as a sort of lumber- 
[ 27 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

room to the whole establishment. Photographs, 
not to be tolerated anywhere else, but the de¬ 
struction of which sentiment forbids, are hung 
in close formation on its walls. Trophies of 
sport — bazaar bargains — the worst wedding 
presents—everything too ugly for the drawing¬ 
room but in too good condition for the rummage 
sale, “can go into the nursery.” 

As the object is to have the maximum of 
open space and the minimum of dust-harbour¬ 
ing objects, the nursery should be the very last 
of all rooms to shelter anything not purposely 
intended for its improvement. Suitability 
should be the only qualification. But to come 
to “safety first.” 

There are many ways of reducing the num¬ 
ber and gravity of casualties. In fact the day 
nursery should be so arranged as to be quite 
safe for the most active and imprudent of 
babies to be left alone in, untroubled by any 
“don’ts.” One very important point is that 
all the furniture should be rounded. The ab¬ 
sence of any corners will mean far fewer gashed 
foreheads and jabbed ribs. There should be 
nothing to trip over, to pull down or far to fall 
from. A tuggable tablecloth loaded with heavy 
[ 28 ] 


THE NURSERY 


objects is very provocative and dangerous. 
There should be draught-excluders on the 
doors, and, if the windows are accessible, they 
must, of course, be barred, and similarly there 
must be a gate at the top of the stairs. Care 
must be taken to see that all bars are so spaced 
as to forbid the passage of a child’s head. I 
once triumphantly forced my own through the 
bars of my cot. Perhaps pride in the achieve¬ 
ment swelled it ? In any case all my efforts 
to withdraw were unavailing, and finally the 
village carpenter had to be summoned to the 
rescue of a temporary heroine. 

A tall fender securely fixed to the wall is 
indispensable, for not only the fire, but also the 
irresistible kettle must be hopelessly out of 
reach. The coal-scuttle should be wooden, 
and a lidded one will save many washings 
during the Christopher Columbus phase through 
which each child must pass. 

A fairly large round table, incapable of wob¬ 
bling will be required for meals, and it is well 
worth while to have its top hinged so that, 
when not in use, it can be pushed against the 
wall to clear the decks for action. An affixed 
linoleum cover—to be rubbed over with damp 
[ 29 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

cloth after each meal, will greatly reduce the 
laundry bill, and over this a pretty-coloured 
cloth can be thrown. A child's low table, with 
little rush-seated chairs to match, is attractive 
to look at, and invaluable for “sit-still” games. 
Of course there must be a really comfortable 
deep armchair for Nurse, and a wide, flat sofa 
is a great asset—the more Spartan habit of 
resting on the floor having for the most part 
been abandoned. There should be a cup¬ 
board large enough to house all the crockery—• 
so much labour is saved by having everything 
in daily use washed upstairs—and an open 
dresser displaying cheerful china is delightfully 
decorative. 

Since children literally bite the dust, the 
crawled-over floor must come up to hospital 
standards of cleanliness. Cork lino is just as 
hygienic, without being so cold to the feet, as 
linoleum. Tender-hearted mothers may pre¬ 
fer the idea of a pile carpet, to soften tumbles 
to a baby in process of becoming a biped. But 
such a luxury is far too bacilli-harbouring, be¬ 
sides being fatal to the nursery traffic of tops 
and mechanical trains. All curtains and chair- 
covers should also obviously be of washing 
[ 30 ] 


THE NURSERY 


material. Delightful chintzes full of enthrall¬ 
ing incident can be bought for quite low prices. 

To have cords on the floor, if the nursery 
has electric light, is asking for too much trouble, 
so instead of table lamps, the well-shaded lights, 
hanging from the ceiling, must be adjustable, to 
allow of Nurse lowering one to light her work¬ 
table. 

In designs for the decoration of nurseries, 
artistic firms have given full rein to their cre¬ 
ative fancy. Star-spangled, sky-blue ceilings 
are suggested for rooms, the walls of which are 
to be painted with trees, through whose 
branches flit birds of dazzling plumage. The 
same brilliant colour scheme is carried out in 
the elaborately painted wooden furniture, and 
a raised platform is provided for acting pur¬ 
poses. 

In doing up rooms for our own children, few 
of us can afford to avail ourselves of such lively 
flights of imagination, neither need the dis¬ 
ability cause us any distress. Nurseries can 
be made pretty, amusing and comfortable at 
a very small cost, and will almost inevitably 
acquire so cosily pleasant an atmosphere, that 
the very dogs and cats will attach them- 
[ 31 ] 


even 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

selves to its fireside in preference to any other. 
The walls should be light and washable, and 
nothing is more suitable than the quite inex¬ 
pensive distemper, with one or two good coats 
of varnish over it. The right shade of yellow 
is very cheerful, producing the effect of bottled 
sunshine. 

The walls of many nurseries are ornamented 
with a frieze either of nursery rhymes, or of 
animals; but these, though quite good com¬ 
pany, do not go with pictures, and most 
mothers will have a few old favourites—tru¬ 
isms of art—on which they will love to feed 
their children’s fancy. “Old masters” should 
assert themselves in the nursery, and any pic¬ 
ture with a story in it exercises great fascina¬ 
tion. It is worth remembering that rounded 
bars are less dust-harbouring than the ordinary 
picture-rails. 

The prettiest kind of nursery furniture now 
on the market is made of painted wood. If 
this is too expensive it is quite easy to buy the 
plain deal and paint it at home. 

Cushioned window-seats are always a de¬ 
lightful feature, and very good toy-cupboards 
(a necessary item) can be made underneath 
[ 32 ] 


THE NURSERY 

them. Of course, window-boxes, with flowers 
for the children themselves to water, are a 
source of great pride and pleasure. 

Shelves will be needed for the rapidly-in¬ 
creasing library, and some must also be pro¬ 
vided for the museum of china ornaments which 
inevitably accumulates. The top shelf should 
be very high, so that all perilous properties 
may be safely inaccessible. Large coloured 
glass balls (to be bought quite cheap in old 
curiosity shops) hanging from the ceiling look 
gay and pretty. 

A rocking-horse, with its unique capacity 
for dignified shabbiness though it cannot be 
considered economical of space, is always a 
beloved member of the nursery kingdom. 
Some form of weather prophet is much ap¬ 
preciated, and a moon-faced clock with the 
loudest possible tick, always seems appropriate. 
Nurse will enjoy saying, “What does the clock 
say—Tick—tick—tick ? Do what you have 
to do, quick, quick, quickand it will give the 
children plenty of time to learn (most difficult 
of lessons) which hand it is that tells the min¬ 
utes and which the hours. 

If you have two unequal rooms to choose 
[ 33 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

from, far better decide on the largest and sun¬ 
niest for the day nursery. Provided the win¬ 
dow be kept religiously open, two children and 
their nurse can quite healthily sleep in what 
may appear a very small room, but the one in 
which they are to eat and play should be as 
uncramped as possible. 

Naturally the more sunshine permeating 
their living room the better, whereas in the 
summer to sleep in a north room is by no means 
a drawback. The two rooms should be within 
easy earshot, and, of course, an adjacent bath¬ 
room with a sink is an inestimable advantage. 
The night nursery—sacred to sleepiness, re¬ 
quires very little furniture or incident. Suf¬ 
ficient hanging and lying accommodation for 
Nurse and the children’s clothes must be pro¬ 
vided, but one good wardrobe will go a very 
long way. 

The curtains should be thick enough to 
soften the sunshine “peeping in at morn.” 

Painted wood cots are delightful, wicker¬ 
work ones far too duster-defying. Great care 
should be taken to see that a child is promoted 
to a large one directly it is time, sleeping in the 
pose of a whiting being most injurious. 

[ 34 ] 


THE NURSERY 


Many backaches will be spared if a suitably 
low chair is provided for nurse’s use when 
bathing the baby. An electric kettle and iron 
will save much time. These are not expen¬ 
sive articles now. Altogether to make your 
nurseries practical and pretty is far more a 
question of time than of money, and, apart 
from your own satisfaction, to do your best to 
make them so is certainly your duty, not only 
to the child but also to the nurse who so pa¬ 
tiently presides over their daily destinies. 


[ 35 ] 


IV 


AT TABLE 

11 Eat slowly: only men in rags 
And gluttons old in sin 
Mistake themselves for carpet bags , 

And tumble victuals in.” 

Sir Walter Raleigh. 

Greatly as all manners and customs have 
changed of recent years, I doubt whether any 
have altered more materially than those of 
children at meals. 

Could any scene more surprise a Rip Van 
Winkle of this century ? How he would rub 
his eyes in bewilderment at both the ethical 
and hygienic transformation! 

Not only has the edict, “Children should be 
seen, not heard,” been revoked in most houses, 
but the whole theory as to the sort of food they 
should eat, and the manner in which it should 
be eaten, has been entirely revised. 

Let us glance back at that solemn rite of a 
luncheon—say some thirty years ago. 

In spite of the engaging proximity of faces 
to plates, the children present a somewhat 
[ 36 ] 


AT TABLE 


grim spectacle. “Business is business” would 
be a suitable motto, for the silence of Trappists 
is enjoined and the sounds of munching and 
swallowing are only broken by the click of 
crockery and such appropriate words of com¬ 
mand as “Bite your food well”—“Finish up 
your greens”—“Don’t leave the fat.” 

Though Mrs. Squeers’ grim tactics of pref¬ 
acing a meal with brimstone and treacle were 
not literally copied, yet the theory of breaking 
the appetite on the stodgy and unattractive 
before the more playful side of eating could be 
indulged in, was strictly carried out. 

The first course was always a severely prac¬ 
tical one, and phases of appetite, legitimately 
requiring nuances of food, were not recognized. 

The child who failed to “conquer” that solid 
first course, piled “high as Mount Ossa” on 
his plate, forfeited all claim to any subsequent 
one of a lighter and more enticing nature. 

“If you can’t finish that good meat (and 
how many poor little children would be thank¬ 
ful for it!), how can you possibly want any of 
that jelly?” “You are not hungry enough to 
eat bread, how dare you ask for cake?” Such 
was the absurd theory. Where hunger left off, 
[ 37 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

gluttony was considered to begin, no inter¬ 
vening phase being admitted. 

No wonder the verdict “Grown-up people 
are so unknowing!” went forth. 

At tea I was always compelled to eat two 
formidable hunks of dry bread before I was 
allowed so much as to contemplate the bland¬ 
ishments of jam and cake. Now I see children 
going straight to the point. Unchidden, they 
at once stretch out their hands for the most 
rococco cake. They even paint the lily by 
spreading butter and jam on the same slice 
of bread. I well remember the first time my 
astonished eyes saw a “grown-up” indulging 
in this particular form of excess, and how I 
expected divine retribution promptly to make 
her choke. 

One result of this prevailing leniency is that 
the emancipated children of to-day seldom 
either bolt or gorge. In one’s eagerness to 
reach the more attractive stage of the meal, 
how one used to wolf the bread which blocked 
the way to the coveted cake, great boulders of 
unbitten food being washed down in gulps of 
milk. Nowadays, when I go to a children’s 
party, I am amazed at the discretion and 
[ 38 ] 


AT TABLE 


moderation displayed. Conscious that they 
may eat what they like when they like, they 
take their time and seem, for the most part, 
to know when they have had enough: in fact, 
I fear the “weight of too much liberty ,, de¬ 
prives them of some of the finest raptures of 
greed. 

In my childhood there were no amiable ideas 
as to things you didn’t like disagreeing with 
you. Far from thinking the gastric juices re¬ 
quired propitiating, the theory was that the 
unpleasant was wholesome, or at any rate that 
the wholesome could not possibly be attrac¬ 
tive. The fact that appreciated food is easier 
to digest is now scientifically proved. 

It is no exaggeration to say that the whole of 
my babyhood was troubled by the dread of 
milk puddings. There is no greater physical 
torture than to be compelled to swallow any¬ 
thing strangely distasteful, and the horror is 
cumulative. The prospect of certain puddings 
became an absolute nightmare. I would rather 
have been whipped than confronted with a pile 
of glutinous adhesive sago. The awful sen¬ 
tence that anything left of your helping should 
resurrect cold for breakfast, was grimly carried 
[ 39 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

out, and I used to be interned whole afternoons 
with platefuls at which my very gorge rose. 

Children of to-day have no conception what 
ordeals of this description they escape now 
that any forcible feeding is the exception in¬ 
stead of the rule. From a hedonistic point of 
view, let us—in justice to our own infancy— 
conclude that they lose some glorious moments, 
since there is no longer sufficient motive for 
palpitating raids on that Holy of Holies, the 
housekeeper’s cupboard; but, as far as their 
digestions are concerned, the reform is, I’m 
sure, a wholly beneficial one. 

So much forbidden fruit automatically led to 
illicit overeating. One saved up pennies to 
buy trash—made a squirrel’s granary and 
guzzled in bed to the destruction of previously 
scrubbed teeth. 

Of course even now a certain proportion of 
possibly unwelcome nourishment must be con¬ 
sumed. Milk is in most families still con¬ 
sidered a sine qua non y and some inconvenient 
children seem to have a natural dislike to it. 
Much can be done by judicious coaxing, and 
there is even scope for bluff. I remember a 
cunning mother who employed it to convert 
[ 40 ] 


AT TABLE 


wholesome objects of general unpopularity 
into coveted treats to be competed for. “Who 
has been a good enough boy to deserve the 
lovely skin on the top of this milk?” A great 
deal might be done in this way; far more than 
by awful allusions to that unfortunate “chubby 
lad” Augustus. 

Dramatizing their dislikes to children by 
discussing them in their presence should be 
avoided, or more and more fancies may be 
adopted for the pleasure of hearing them re¬ 
marked on—the extra attention being much 
appreciated. Above all, never let them hear 
opinions as to what disagrees with them, but 
just remove the danger without any comment. 
A child should take his digestion as a matter of 
course, not learn to feel a wan pride in any 
physical idiosyncrasy. 

Equally a certain standard of table manners 
is, I hope, still universally aimed at. Mouths 
must not be wiped on tablecloths, heads 
scratched with forks, nor Dr. Johnson's ex¬ 
ample of how not to be a fool followed without 
due provocation. The fate of “fidgety Phil” 
must be remembered, and races over milk and 
sponge cakes are not to be encouraged Also— 
[ 41 } 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

without making a bore and a bogey of Mr. 
Gladstone and his thirty-two bites to the 
mouthful—some check must be applied to 
excessive bolting. The happiest children are 
still subjected to a fair degree of discipline, 
but a reasonable amount of irrelevant conver¬ 
sation and comfortable attitudes are now per¬ 
mitted at meals by wise parents. Elbows on 
the table is not an elegant position, but how 
difficult to be very rigid on this point when, 
at any assembly of mixed ages, there are sure 
to be some grown-up people indulging in the 
practice. To give a rebuked child the chance 
of pointing out its elders in “flagrant delict” 
is surely to afford it too great a treat; and, 
though children should by all means be ex¬ 
pected to behave better at table than their 
elders, the gulf should not be too unnaturally 
wide. 

Be sure that any directions you may give as 
to eating are clearly understood. I suffered 
much from misapprehending certain orders. 
The imperative “Don't eat with your front 
teeth" caused me untold worry and embarrass¬ 
ment. It was, of course, intended to correct 
an unbecoming habit of eating like a rabbit, 
[ 42 ] 


AT TABLE 


the front teeth usurping the work of the back 
ones as well as doing their own. I took it to 
mean that my front teeth were to take no part 
whatever in the proceedings, and my ensuing 
efforts to put all my food through the side of 
my mouth, instead of through the front door, 
occasioned intense discomfort and many 
scoldings. 

There was also a sad mistake about aspara¬ 
gus. I was told never on any account to eat 
their stalks. Unfortunately I got just the 
wrong idea as to their two ends, and used con¬ 
scientiously to chew the pale, hard stalks, 
leaving the succulent green heads untasted! 
Then the terrors I went through, thanks to 
exaggerated propaganda as to the dangers of 
swallowing the stones and pips of fruit. By 
all means tell your children to avoid them, but 
don’t leave them under the impression that 
one slipping down will mean immediate appen¬ 
dicitis. Similarly, if I had been told that to 
swallow a piece of shot was not certain death, 
I would have been spared the agonized after¬ 
noon that followed my first helping of pheasant. 

Children should be taught to take a proper 
pride in keeping the cloth clean, but to spread 
[ 43 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

a napkin in front of them is rather to suggest 
spills. They will consider themselves expected 
to be messy, and will probably not disappoint 
you. 

I am glad to notice that the practice of ma¬ 
king the one unfortunate child in the midst of 
elders say grace aloud, has for the most part 
been relinquished. This—a barbarity to a shy 
child—encouraged religion as little as it did 
digestion. 

Each generation astonishes the next one by 
tales of its childhood. When we were ex¬ 
postulated with for stooping, our elders told us 
of how they were taught their erect carriage by 
means of holly beneath the chin and spiked 
chairs. To them the table rules imposed on 
us seemed strangely slack. The change be¬ 
tween their manners and ours was as great as 
that between ours and the children of to-day. 
I suppose they, in their turn, will be astonished 
at their children's still further release from 
stiffness and restraint. But how, I wonder? 
Will their feet be allowed to rest on the table, 
and knives, forks and spoons be discarded in 
favour of their own “pickers and stealers"? 

Much may be lost with the banishment of 
[ 44 ] 


AT TABLE 


formality from any sphere. No doubt there 
is now too little ceremony over meals, but I’m 
sure that, on the whole, they are, in the average 
family, far healthier and happier functions than 
were those at which the presiding parents were 
themselves the children. 


[ 45 ] 


V 

IN “MOTHER’S DAY NURSERY” 


“ The future destiny of the child is always the work 
of the mother .”— Napoleon. 

“May I go down to ‘Mother’s Day Nur¬ 
sery’?” This phrase—one that was naturally 
adopted by a child of three—conveys precisely 
the pleasurable degree of glamour with which 
the drawing-room should be invested. Strange¬ 
ness and reassurance, excursion and safety are 
simultaneously suggested—something of the 
formality of a frontier with none of its frown. 
Children are naturally ritualistic, and that a 
certain sense of ceremony should be associated 
with “grown-up” precincts will greatly en¬ 
hance the enjoyment of the time spent down¬ 
stairs. 

I do not mean that the drawing-room should, 
as in some houses, be a prohibited area except 
during one rigidly adhered to “children’s 
hour,” for which the passports of changed 
clothes and brushed hair are required. The 
very essence of motherhood is the inability to 
[ 46 ] 


IN “MOTHER’S DAY NURSERY 


go out of office. You cannot have hours on 
and off or claim a close season. Impossible to 
dole out rations of time and attention to clam¬ 
ouring children. 

Like the water supply, a mother must con¬ 
sider herself as once and for all “laid on, hot 
and cold.” 

Ever at the beck and call of emergency, she 
must be always prepared to function in count¬ 
less capacities. A first-aid ambulance—a court 
of appeal—a confessor—a collaborator—an au¬ 
dience—an umpire—a safe—an encyclopaedia ! 
These are some of the innumerable parts she 
must be ever ready to play. 

But by all means let a certain ceremonious¬ 
ness be observed towards the shrine of this 
Jill of all trades. 

Muddy boots must be removed, messy 
trophies of outdoor adventure relinquished— 
some little deference paid to the change of 
surroundings. 

Nothing is easier than to enlist a child's 
respect for a soft carpet and fragile furniture, 
and the pride of taking care of “Mother's toys,” 
by refraining from the rompiest games, yields 
an enjoyment all its own. Let it be understood 
[ 47 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

that Mother comes upstairs to play your games 
and that you come down to learn hers. Don’t 
try and make an inferior nursery of a room 
probably ill-adapted to bear-fighting. For the 
whole house to be Liberty Hall, is to deprive 
a child of many enjoyable nuances. 

His sense of the appropriate can be most 
agreeably cultivated and a child’s natural pride 
in being “trusted” will prove your best ally— 
making precautions seem privileges rather than 
annoyances. The most unassuming of draw¬ 
ing-rooms will easily inspire admiration and 
respect. Children are struck by its being 
so strangely different from the play-battered 
nursery, and they are, as a rule, very susceptible 
to pretty things. 

I think what impressed me most of all as a 
child was the feel of a deep carpet to feet accus¬ 
tomed to the “no nonsense” of linoleum. So 
softly and sumptuously did it spread that I 
longed to take off my shoes and paddle in its 
pile. 

There was the table covered with “Mother’s 
toys”—a peculiarly privileged table—not like 
the nursery one, liable to be periodically cleared 
to make way for meals—since a special one 
[ 48 ] 


IN “MOTHER’S DAY NURSERY” 

with wonderfully accomplished legs was always 
carried in for tea. And then there was the 
majestic charm of the shining silver kettle, in 
which you could see your own face so fascina¬ 
tingly distorted. As for the enchanting work- 
box, with its regiments of shimmering reels of 
silks, no “on purpose toy” ever quite came 
up to it. 

True, the books were pictureless, mechanical 
toys couldn’t run on the floor, nor tops attempt 
to spin, but there were so many unfamiliar 
objects that were either “silky” or “shiny,” 
and the curtains, falling in heavy folds, pro¬ 
vided such wonderful hiding-places. “What a 
good cuckoo room! ” as I heard a child say the 
other day. 

Everything had its special place, and the 
pride of restoring a borrowed breakable treasure 
to its shrine ranked very high in the scale of 
coveted privileges. The prestige acquired by 
the temporary toy, which is too precious to be 
taken upstairs, however much you cry for it, 
will in the long run yield more pleasure than 
demoralizing concessions on this point—one 
which, by the way, is very apt to arise. The 
drawing-room must never come to be regarded 
[ 49 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 


as a sort of nursery overflow, whence the chil¬ 
dren can carry off anything which takes their 
fancy. 

On the same principle, though all the time 
they spend downstairs be really dedicated to 
the children, this fact need not be too appar¬ 
ent. 

Mother and Father will be more appreciated 
if the children early realize that they are not 
merely a background to them, but mysterious 
beings, leading enthralling lives of their own. 
Occasional preoccupation and such words as 
“I must finish this important letter,” thrilled 
me as though hinting that they were “moving 
about in worlds unrealized”—but worlds to 
which my own passage was already booked! 

Is not the present tendency, perhaps, almost 
to over-insist on the fun and glory of childhood, 
and the misfortune and bathos of growing up ? 
To give children the impression that the grown¬ 
up people have no object in existence save their 
welfare and entertainment, is dwarfing life to 
them by lowering their own horizon. By all 
means dramatize their present, but not at the 
expense of their own future. Glorify the flow¬ 
ers at their feet, but deny not the blueness of 
[ 50 ] 


IN “MOTHER’S DAY NURSERY” 

distant hills, and let the prospect of growing up 
have something of the promised land. 

“What is Daddie for?” (as I heard a two- 
year-old inquire) ably expresses the puzzled 
bewilderment of a child concerning the raison 
d'etre of any one whose function towards him¬ 
self was not apparent. Easy enough to see the 
object of nurse and the cook. Mother is either 
a makeshift for nurse or a standing treat, but 
what and why is this large strange being who 
is neither child nor servant ? 

By all means dramatize yourself to the chil¬ 
dren by occasional absorption in your own 
affairs. To ask a child to “keep as quiet as a 
mouse” can give him real pleasure. I re¬ 
member enjoying the sense it gave me of 
assisting in mighty matters. 

Actively to entertain children the whole time 
is in any case a mistake. For one thing, you 
thus miss the delights of watching their de¬ 
licious spontaneous play. They are apt to be 
most entrancing when undisturbed by any 
impresario. 

Some mothers, eager to have a success with 
theii children, so succeed in their ambition 
“to haunt, to startle, and waylay” them, that 
[ 51 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

when bedtime comes their children go upstairs 
quivering with nerves, and stimulated out of all 
suitable sleepiness. But, however detached 
you may appear, your children's presence in 
the room must, in reality, never for an instant 
be forgotten. Remember their surprising imi¬ 
tative faculty, and never, by your own example, 
lower the standard of manners you wish to set. 
The “Please" and “Thank-you" code must be 
rigorously carried out, especially in addressing 
the children themselves. 

Not only this, but a careful censorship must 
be exercised over your conversation with con¬ 
temporaries. For listening purposes, you 
should always overrate a child's intelligence. 
However apparently engrossed with his bricks, 
he may carry up the strangest gobbets of 
gossip. 

Be careful what you laugh at and whom you 
discuss, and remember how much worrying 
bewilderment can arise from unexplained 
idioms. The expression “So and so grows on 
one" used to cause me real mental distress! 
Besides, heedlessness of speech can lead to the 
most embarrassing practical results. I still 
remember stealthily creeping up to examine 
[ 52 ] 


IN “MOTHER’S DAY NURSERY” 

the neck of a visitor I had heard alluded to as 
having “her head well-screwed on”; and ask¬ 
ing her if she still “knew which side her bread 
was buttered, as Uncle said she did, when she 
married Cousin D.” Another scene of sad 
confusion was when a child, rebuked for not 
shaking hands, excused itself by saying, 
’Fraid lady’s hand burn, ’cos Mother said 
she was very ‘hot stuff.’ ” 

On no account omit to explain the conven¬ 
tion of saying “Not at home,” when they know 
you to be resting on the sofa. This worried 
my young conscience greatly, and I well re¬ 
member contradicting the appalled butler’s 
front-door statement, and triumphantly usher¬ 
ing the most unwelcome visitors into the pres¬ 
ence of a horizontal mother. 

I fear seeds of the sense of injustice (a plant 
of tropical growth) are often sown in a child’s 
mind in the drawing-room owing to his meeting 
with different treatment to anything he is 
accustomed to upstairs. Never—because of 
its results—punish an action that would have 
passed unchidden in the nursery, or he will 
think “grown-ups” unreasonable and unjust. 
Explain that particular things are valuable, 
[ 53 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

don’t expect him to discriminate. For in¬ 
stance, since he was allowed to scribble on the 
—to him—far more attractive coloured picture- 
book upstairs, how could he know it was a 
crime to put the drab looking first edition to 
the same purpose ? 

Try not to treat him differently in different 
moods. This form of elementary justice re¬ 
quires much self-control, but what is even more 
difficult and important is to refrain from 
laughter on all occasions when it may either 
hurt feelings or encourage naughtiness. One 
untimely chuckle may have the most far- 
reaching quenching or inciting effects. Noth¬ 
ing like the laughter of “grown-ups”—its ridi¬ 
cule or applause—for stiffing the flowers and 
fostering the weeds. 

When the children come downstairs always 
assume them to be both good and reasonable, 
and express surprise, not resigned grievance, 
at any bad behaviour. Such phrases as “How 
naughty!” or “How stupid you are!” confirm 
and crystallize. “Why are you pretending 
to be naughty—or stupid?” “I can’t play 
with you until you remember you are a good 
boy,” are far more judicious. 

[ 54 ] 


IN " MOTHER’S DAY NURSERY” 

Bedtime, that “Fancy's knell,” is far too 
often a sad curtain to a happy scene—a halcyon 
evening ending in riot and disorder. It should 
not be too abrupt a summons. No order which 
is not intended to be firmly carried out should 
ever be given; but if you wish to avoid tears, 
do have the consideration to give a child a few 
minutes’ warning to “come to” before he is 
torn away from a world of make-believe. 
You cannot tell how much you may be asking 
of him. His investments are invisible. Im¬ 
possible to know to what extent his honour 
may be at stake. Give him time to kill his 
giant, or pull up the drawbridge. Let him 
satisfactorily close the episode, but encourage 
the idea of its being part of a serial game to 
be continued next time he “comes down to 
Mother’s day nursery. ” Give him the delights 
of looking forward. The skilful mother knows 
how a child’s cake may be kept as well as eaten, 
and for her children there should always be a 
to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow of 
delicious anticipation. 


[ 55 ] 


VI 


VISITORS 

“Habits are at first cobwebs , at length cables .”—Old 
Proverb. 

To fly helter-skelter down the passage and 
burst “full of fun and gladness” into “Mother's 
day nursery,” only to find the room frozen by 
the presence of strangers, was a* reiterated 
shock of childhood. I never knew which was 
worse, to run into such an ambush—the sudden 
douche of disappointment quenching all one's 
bright hopes for the evening—or to be pre¬ 
warned of the ordeal and come down prepared 
for the worst, pranked out for the “enemy” 
and coached in company manners. 

On these occasions I remember my Nannie 
used to tie a piece of ribbon round my right 
wrist so that I shouldn't disgrace her by pre¬ 
senting the wrong hand for “How do you do ?” 
One's troubles were not merely negative. Bad 
enough the cancelled programme, the post¬ 
poned reading or game, but in addition to this 
what positive ordeals to be faced! 

My first consuming dread was: “Should I 

[ 56 ] 


VISITORS 


be kissed ? ” If so, would there be a moustache 
in it, or the kind of cold nose which went down 
your ear? I very soon realized that where 
there was one kiss, there was almost certain to 
be two. This cast a shadow over the whole 
interval between “How do you do?” and 
“Good-bye.” You had, so to speak, to pay 
at both gates. Then there was a considerable 
risk of being hoisted on to an uncomfortable 
knee and subjected to a most disconcerting 
catechism. It is curious how quite intelligent 
and well-meaning “grown-ups” will cater to 
children with some half-dozen stock questions 
—each of which is calculated to put any child 
hopelessly out of ease. 

“Shall I cut your curls off?” 

“Would you like to come home with me ?” 

“Which do you like best, your father or 
your mother?” 

“Are you jealous of your little brother?” 
Such are the accustomed overtures. To greet 
a contemporary caller with the inquiries: 

“What is your income?” 

“Are you in love with your husband?” 

“Do you dye your hair?” 
would be in equally good taste. 

[ 57 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 


Of course there were shining exceptions. 
Enchanting wizards and fairies, who not only 
made bunnies out of handkerchiefs and threw 
finger shadows on the walls, but burst your 
bond of shyness and actually talked to you in 
a normal voice. What a pentecostal effect 
they had, making you feel a fellow-creature 
instead of a dumb show. 

But on the whole—since one must acquit 
them of ill-will—visitors displayed a strange 
lack of memory of their own childhood. 

There is no greater triangular embarrass¬ 
ment than constantly pervades drawing-rooms 
in which parents, visitors and children meet to 
throw each other into confusion. Shyness, 
mutually given and taken, surges round the 
room and all parties appear at their worst. 

The visitors, conscious of not showing to 
advantage, are at a loss how, without apparent 
irony, to compliment their hostess on the 
possession of children whom they have only 
seen disfigured—to the point of disguise—by 
the effect of their own presence; and the mother, 
bewildered and disappointed by the meta¬ 
morphosis in the children she has so looked 
forward to exhibiting, is sadly hurt through 
[ 58 ] 


VISITORS 


her love and vanity. How unaccountably 
quicksilver has turned into suet! He whose 
precocity is her pride, and who upstairs is a 
Niagara of talk, now requires to have each 
word surgically extracted. A catalepsy seems 
to have overtaken him. So completely is his 
“receiver off.” Even their so lovely looks are 
mysteriously eclipsed. Petrified out of all 
their natural prettiness of movement, with 
colour and expression banished, they seem 
scarce recognizable. 

As for the children, they feel quite as miser¬ 
able as they look; the world has become an 
uncomfortable place in which Mother is no 
longer Mother, for they can be subconsciously 
disturbed by “nerves” in others long before 
they recognize them. 

This too frequent state of general discomfort 
is really so unnecessary. As far as the visitors 
are concerned, the simplest decalogue would 
help to prevent such a caricature of a scene. 
A positive talent for child-tackling cannot be 
acquired, but, whatever the shortcomings, 
glaring sins of commission might at least be 
avoided. Here are a few elementary rules: 

“Don’t kiss at first sight.” 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

Or say: 

“Shall I toss you up to the ceiling?" 

“Don't make personal remarks." 

“Don't talk what you think to be baby 
language." 

“Don't ask perfunctory questions or refer 
to the occasion when you saw a child in its 
bath, and never, never rush your fences by at 
once pulling a face—flopping on all fours, or 
barking like a dog. ‘You’re no one wot I 
know,' was a well-deserved reproof I heard 
administered to an over-familiar visitor." 

For mothers the situation is far more subtle 
and complex. Their dangers are largely due to 
the promptings of vanity, for they are too in¬ 
clined to regard their children as illustrations 
of themselves, and to hunger for their charms 
to receive an immediate ovation. 

Seeing their children show to disadvantage 
is so painful that, in their agitation, they are 
apt to throw fuel on the furnace of embarrass¬ 
ment and distort them more and more. 

Or, in their efforts to prevent their children 
thus falling flat, they may even commit so 
grave a sin of self-indulgence as to quote a 
child in its presence or try to make it do a 
[ 60 ] 


VISITORS 


“turn.” Some mothers, indeed, treat their 
children no better than a gramophone, and 
what can only be called “baby-baiting” is 
far too common. The golden rule is never in 
any way to exploit your child for your own or 
any one else’s amusement, but, for the sake of 
getting a laugh, one sees it infringed to the 
extent of urging him to do or say precisely the 
things for which he would rightly be punished 
upstairs. Rudeness is produced as an accom¬ 
plishment, a display made of disobedience—a 
performance of passion! 

Children are the best toys in the world, but 
they must never be deliberately wound up. 
What rods mothers can pickle for their own 
backs by making pets of comic defects! 

One form of fatuity to be avoided is that of 
trying to explain away your child’s temporary 
eclipse of beauty, charm and intelligence. 
Children are variable as the weather, and their 
faculty for letting you down on special occasions 
is inexpressibly annoying; but, any comment 
on it sounds as fatuous as does the explanation, 
“I can’t play to-day,” at tennis or at golf, and 
carries just about as much weight. 

Don’t say “He’s not looking his best this 

[ 61 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

evening,” “Her hair curls beautifully when 
the weather’s decent,” or “I think she will be 
pretty when she has ‘cut her nose/ as Lord 
Chesterfield said of a snub-nosed baby. ” Such 
explanations are futile, besides suffocating the 
children in self-consciousness. You must face 
the fact that children for the most part will 
not wear their fascination on their sleeves. 
Display of that unique and intoxicating charm, 
so well known to you and Nannie in the nur¬ 
sery, can never be counted on. Cherish no 
such hope; but, by skilful handling, your 
children should escape acute misery from 
visitors and attain to a certain standard of 
manners. Remember, nothing is more often 
suggested than shyness, so never say “I hope 
you are not going to be a shy little boy to-day. ” 

Ordinary surface manners of the “How do 
you do?” “Please,” and “Thank you” de¬ 
scription should be so continuously instilled 
that they become automatic as Guards’ drill, 
and then they can be relied on not to desert 
in a crisis. 

The great mistake is to have distinct family 
and company manners, taken on and off like 
gloves. They must adhere like skin, and par- 
[ 62 ] 


VISITORS 


ents and nurse must set the example of their 
inevitability. No holiday from the ideal must 
ever be claimed, for if bad manners are ever 
accepted like fate and excused on account of 
tiredness or shyness, a bad precedent is at once 
established. Imply that the observation of 
the little forms of ceremony is a privilege of 
“grown-up glory,” not an infliction on child¬ 
hood. 

As for crippling shyness—far more often 
due to egotism than to modesty—it must never 
be accepted as a natural disability. Its con¬ 
quest is a necessary form of self-control. Ex¬ 
plain that to overcome it is to win a victory, 
just as much as conquering a hill. Personify 
it as a dragon, or what you will, and fight it 
inch by inch. 

Wrongly instructed manners may increase 
self-consciousness, but properly instructed ones 
will certainly diminish it. Teach children— 
what after all is the foundation of all good 
manners—to try and put themselves in the 
place of others, and to make it their aim to set 
people at their ease. Make it quite clear that 
good manners are not intended for their own 
adornment (a form of “showing off”—as I 
[ 63 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

have heard children describe them), but entirely 
for the comfort of others—in fact, not observed 
to gain approval, but to make the world a 
pleasanter place. No fear of making them 
“mechanical,” but by keeping up a certain 
amount of ceremony in the drawing-room the 
encounter with visitors will become less of an 
ordeal and each success will make the next 
occasion easier. 

Besides finding “Mother’s day nursery” 
under enemy occupation, there was the alter¬ 
native ordeal equally straining to manners of 
having one’s own territory invaded by con¬ 
temporaries. 

Entertaining chosen friends to tea was, of 
course, a great treat, but all little strangers were 
not necessarily either pleasing or pleased. 

Certainly to be taken out calling with Mother 
and precipitated, all unedited, into a strange 
nursery, there to be marooned so long as draw¬ 
ing-room talk flourished, was not always a 
pleasing experience. Some nurses were kind, 
and would take off your shyness with your hat 
and coat. Others, scarcely concealing their 
annoyance at the disturbance, left you without 
[ 64 ] 


VISITORS 


a helping hand amongst tantalizing toys and 
silent or aggressively interrogative children. 

Parents naturally like their children to choose 
their play-fellows from the families of their 
own friends, but they must be prepared to find 
them prefer the company of the charges of their 
nurse’s friends, and of strangers met at classes. 

Grown-up people are too inclined to assume 
that all children are mutual treats—that there 
is a Freemasonry of years. As a matter of 
fact, the young are often very discriminating, 
and quite liable to fall, not in love, but in hate. 
Between some, any discussion—even if only 
as to whether blue or red, apple pie or apple 
pudding be preferred—inevitably leads to quar¬ 
relling. 

If little uninvited visitors are brought into 
the nursery, nurse must see to it that her chil¬ 
dren early acquire the ideals of hospitality. 
They must try and make their visitors feel at 
home—give them the freedom of their toys, 
and realize that it is not compatible with good 
manners, as hosts and hostesses, to seize the 
opportunity—so easy on your own ground—of 
showing off. Let the visitors choose the games. 
Don’t allow the home team to insist on playing 
{ 65 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

their set of “Who Knows”—all the answers to 
which they have learnt by heart,—or Hide-and- 
Seek, where they know all the lairs. That way 
lie cheap scores and undeserved humiliations. 

At one time, in the prime of long-leggedness, 
I happened to excel at the high jump. The 
advent of any unfortunate little girl was shame¬ 
lessly seized on as an occasion for self-glorifica¬ 
tion. A jumping competition was suggested, 
and the whole household summoned to applaud 
the triumph of the hostess and the mortification 
of the guest. I was also allowed to terrify 
children by taking them for personally con¬ 
ducted tours over the roof of the house on 
which, from long practice, I myself was as 
much at home as a cat. 

For the children who are visiting, the rules 
are obvious though not always easy to enforce. 
They should never either audibly complain or 
covet. Looting must never be allowed; no 
wretched host made to surrender a toy because 
a spoilt visitor has cried for it. Tears (not 
“idle” these, but industrious) as a means to an 
end should never triumph, least of all when 
they must turn on the tears of others. To 
return from the invaders to those who suffer 
[ 66 ] 


VISITORS 


siege, never forget to congratulate the good 
host as well as to censure the bad; and, if 
possible, avoid introducing young visitors into 
your nursery without any warning. It is only 
fair to give your children a little time in which 
to mobilize their manners. 


[ 67 ] 


VII 


READING ALOUD 

“Why should we strive with cynic frown 
To knock their fairy castle down?” 

Eliza Cook. 

Among the many good turns children may 
do their parents, I know none better than the 
delight given by their enjoyment of reading 
aloud, and to take down some well-loved book 
and hold them spellbound is undoubtedly one 
of the supreme pleasures of motherhood. Is 
it not almost the best instance of their blessed 
reOpen Sesame gifts, the way in which the up¬ 
turned flower-faces, with eyes aflare and quiv¬ 
ering lips, are as a magic carpet on which you 
are wafted back into the enchanted region of 
your own childhood ? Magic is restored to the 
wands of the old wizards, the doors of the 
prison-house burst open, and once more you 
travel in the “realms of gold. ,, Add to this 
the pleasures of the priestess—the feeling of, 
so to speak, handing on the torch; and then 
[ 68 ] 


READING ALOUD 


gratefully acknowledge the extent of your debt 
to the obliging child at your knee. 

Remember he might have been one of those 
children one hears about (I have never met 
them) who are in this respect complete non¬ 
conductors, refuse to sit still to be read to, or 
remain apathetically unresponsive to all the 
triumphs of fancy and fun. 

I doubt whether there has ever been a story- 
proof child. Under such a disappointment, I 
confess it would be hard to remain philosophical. 
But I cannot help thinking that the supply 
depends upon the demand. The mother, to 
whom it is convenient that her children should 
have a taste for being read to, must indeed be 
incompetent if she fail to inspire it. 

Some people regard reading aloud as an 
injurious form of spoon-feeding, and think that 
its practice prevents children acquiring the 
habit of reading to themselves. There seems 
to me just about as much risk of their not help¬ 
ing themselves to food when hungry, owing to 
having been fed by others whilst they were 
babies. 

As a matter of fact, it is far better that quite 
young children should not read to themselves a 
[ 69 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

very great deal. In going through certain 
books, companionship will be very necessary 
to them. Remember that, to an imaginative 
child, reading is to all intents and purposes 
direct experience (Did one not cry because a 
book was finished ?)—not a method of passing 
the time, or of exercising a scarcely-born critical 
faculty. 

He will actually pass through the adventures 
related, and it is not fitting that he should do 
so alone. In reading certain episodes he will 
need, so to speak, to have his hand held quite 
as much as if he were traversing a dark forest. 
Just as well send him out of doors alone, as 
encourage him to read some of the most palpi¬ 
tating passages to himself. 

If you are not with him on the occasion of 
his being frightened or over-excited, you will 
be unable to apply any timely antidote to his 
nerves. Recognized alarms are fairly easy to 
allay, it is the unsuspected ones that may do so 
much harm. Besides, so large a part of happi¬ 
ness as is experienced through the delights of 
books, should surely, to some extent, be shared 
between parents and children. Nothing more 
becoming to a mother than the halo of asso* 
[ 70 ] 


READING ALOUD 

ciation worn by the grown-up person who 
initiates children into their best-loved books, 
the gratitude owed to the author—whose name 
they ignore—going out to the reader. What 
an undying glamour was imparted by one's 
favourite fairy stories, to her who read them! 

And then, from the practical point of view, 
it is such a wonderful solution for the “chil¬ 
dren's hour." One cannot forever be playing 
at Blind Man’s Buff or “Let's pretend" games; 
and sitting still is often devoutly to be wished 
for. Besides which, reading can be so well 
combined with drawing, needlework or any 
other enjoyable handicraft. 

For the sake of your grandchildren, each 
child should himself be encouraged to read out 
for a little every day. The capacity to read 
aloud even tolerably is too rare, and should be 
cultivated early. 

With older children, an excellent family 
occupation is reading a Shakespeare play in 
turns. There are two different ways of setting 
to work. Either the characters are carefully 
allotted, or else things are left to chance, and 
you each read a speech in rotation. Both 
systems have drawbacks. Under the first it 
[ 71 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

is not always easy to decide who is to accept 
the minor parts; under the second, those who 
like the sound of their own voice are tempted to 
try and skip the wretched single line falling to 
their share, in order to secure the coming pur¬ 
ple patch. A competent president is required, 
but there is no better way of combining read¬ 
ing and companionship. 

In reading to children, an ardent mother’s 
temptation will be to anticipate and—instead 
of lingering over each phase—to, as it were, 
waste fruit by eating it unripe. Many, for 
instance, through excess of loyalty, prematurely 
stride into Scott, or dash into Dickens, running 
the risk of instilling very obstinate prejudices 
by thus forcibly feeding a child with unap¬ 
preciated books. Owing to this, bugbears are 
often made of those which with a little waiting, 
would have been first favourites. 

You must have patience, and not try to 
drag a child out of enjoyable phases natural to 
his age by condemning the books he adores. 
Better, for the most part, to leave him undis¬ 
turbed in his tastes. Nothing hurts one’s 
feelings so much as a thoughtless sneer from 
a respected “grown-up” at some beloved story 
[ 72 ] 


READING ALOUD 

or character. Children made so shy of banter 
—so accustomed to sarcasm as to conceal their 
admiration, are robbed of delight without being 
helped towards discrimination. To a small 
child, the author's words are sometimes merely 
the bricks with which to build castles of his 
own; and to try and force precocious discrimi¬ 
nation is often only to bewilder and baulk 
him. 

By all means remove books you consider 
unwholesome or not worth while, but better 
not disturb his enjoyment of those he is allowed 
by analysing them, any more than you would 
make him self-conscious about the food set 
before him. 

Never be in a hurry to impose your own 
sense of humour on a child—to him so very far 
from being the most important sense. Forbear 
to worry him with any such incomprehensible 
phrase as “false sentiment," and remember 
how much children, left to themselves, enjoy a 
good stout moral. Don't deride it, however 
blatant. They appreciate a didacticism which 
seems too heavy for us. 

Not only must you be tolerant of your child's 
likes, but also you must be forgiving of his 
[ 73 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

possible inability to enjoy the very books to 
which you have most looked forward to intro¬ 
ducing him. Above all, never fall into the 
prevailing sin of reading him “potted” classics. 
Some, in their eagerness to introduce their 
children to such fascinating characters as Cap¬ 
tain Silver, Rob Roy, or Sidney Carton, hurry 
them into false familiarity devoid of intimacy 
by buying those popular publications of Scott, 
Dickens and Stevenson in a nutshell. Not 
only is this training as bad as encouraging chil¬ 
dren to eat jam without bread, but it must also 
spoil the first real encounter. Some parents, 
wishing to spare their children's feelings, avoid 
stories with sad endings; but, owing to their 
love of sensationalism, it is impossible to pre¬ 
dict what will distress them. They are spas¬ 
modically sentimental and callous, and though 
I have seen bitter tears shed over the death of 
the hero of Miss Ewing's Story of a Short Life , 
these tears were far sooner dried than were 
those of disappointment I saw shed the other 
day over Abraham’s reprieve from having to 
kill his only son Isaac. “But why not? the 
knife was all ready.” 

There is acute disagreement as to the ad- 
[ 74 ] 


READING ALOUD 


visability of reading good poems to young 
children. Some poetry-devotees see a danger 
of making their favourites hackneyed before 
they can be understood by pouring them into 
half-open ears. In their dread of impairing 
future enjoyment by what they consider an 
unfair introduction, likely to instil prejudice, 
they limit their children to narrative poems, 
or to those written in conscious condescension. 
They are as much inclined to postpone the 
pleasures of poetry as they are to be precipitate 
with prose. 

Is not this precisely the wrong way about ? 
If the sense of a prose narrative cannot be 
followed, it is read to little purpose, but it must 
never be forgotten that the first appeal of 
poetry—own sister to music—is to the ear , and, 
through it, direct to the emotions. Children 
are naturally very susceptible to rhythm; they 
love the lilt of measured words, and can revel 
in the music of sound as an end in itself. Ex¬ 
periments prove that they not only enjoy listen¬ 
ing to poetry in an unknown tongue, but that 
they can respond to its emotional appeal, 
seeming to be so sensitive to the sense conveyed 
by mere sound, as to be able involuntarily to 
[ 75 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

guess at its purport. Their natural ear for 
poetry can be cultivated with great increase 
of enjoyment, and therefore poems should be 
selected for them for their beauty of form and 
not on account of their subject. 

That they do not know what a poem “ means ” 
is no matter, so long as they do not definitely 
^/junderstand it, but—without bothering as 
to the sense—just revel in the sheer sound and 
its inevitable suggestiveness. They should be 
allowed to listen in a “wise passiveness,” not 
worried to explain, or even pressed with un¬ 
solicited explanations. One’s sympathies go 
out to the child who said, “Mother, I think 
I should understand, if only you wouldn’t 
explain. ” 

Don’t try and make the poems you read to a 
child suggest the same ideas to him that they 
do to you. You will have quite sufficient 
common ground in listening to the music, 
seeing the picture, and feeling the mysterious¬ 
ness, without any insistence on “getting the 
message. ” 

The determination to have them understand 
what they read leads to so many mistakes in 
the choosing of poetry for children. The es- 
[ 76 ] 


READING ALOUD 


sential thing is that their sense of beauty of 
form should be cultivated, and so many narra¬ 
tive poems are just tales in verse, not poetry— 
mere jingle devoid of any true music. 

In his admirable book, The Rudiments of 
Criticism , Mr. Lamborn writes: “Children like 
stories, and so it is assumed that narrative 
verses are the best for them. Thus, on the 
one hand, plays of Shakespeare as stories to¬ 
gether with Miss Heman’s stories in verse, are 
selected for them to study; and, on the other 
hand, “Kubla Khan,” “L’Allegro,” “The 
Remote Bermudas,” “A Dream of the Un¬ 
known,” “The Highland Reaper,” are neg¬ 
lected because they are supposed to have no 
childish interest. These are fundamental errors. 

Children like other things besides stories, 
and one of them is poetry for its mystery, for 
its music and pictures, and the sensuous enjoy¬ 
ment they bring. . . . 

“I do not, of course, mean that we should 
read ‘Venus and Adonis* or the ‘Decameron* 
to children, any more than we should give 
bryony berries to babies, simply because they 
are beautiful. But I do mean very decidedly 
that we should choose our children’s poems for 
[ 77 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 


their beauty of form first, and only negatively 
on account of their matter. ” 

I feel certain Mr. Lamborn is right. Nearly 
all children are naturally susceptible to what we 
vaguely call “magic” in poetry. Surely they 
should be given the chance of “Kubla Khan” 
before they are condemned to “Casabianca. ” 
Those who persist in the opinion that lyrics 
are better left until later, should at least fully 
avail themselves of the best ballads, than which 
there is no more wholesome or better-loved 
fare. Nearly all children delight in their simple 
tales and romantic suggestiveness, and the fre¬ 
quent repetition of the words seems to hold an 
almost hypnotic fascination for them. 

However impatient to know “what comes 
next,” children should be read to quite slowly. 
Their minds very easily get out of breath, and 
to drag them pell-mell through too many ad¬ 
ventures and emotions in one evening is over¬ 
agitating. They should be encouraged to chew 
the cud, to gloat over one episode rather than 
rush on to the next. I expect the usual pace 
of the delivery has something to do with the 
undeniable fact that nearly all children prefer 
having a story told them, to being read aloud to. 

[ 78 ] 


READING ALOUD 


To keep possession of so great a passport to 
delight as an enthralling story, by resolutely 
forbidding that the drawing-room book be 
carried upstairs, is quite fair play. It is a 
monopoly a mother should claim, and a book, 
lasting for weeks, and the return to which is 
looked forward to at each good-night, makes 
an ideal family experience and memory. There 
could be no better way of spending the last 
half-hour of a child’s long day; but it must be 
remembered never to break off, with the art 
of the serial, at the critical moment, leaving 
the heroine unrescued and villainy triumphant. 

Untie the urgent knots, smooth down the 
situation, and send the listener off to peaceful 
sleep “in lap of legends old.” 


[79] 


VIII 


CONDEMNED TO TOWN 

“It is worth living in London surely , to enjoy the 
country when you get to it ”— Thackeray. 

Many mothers are deeply distressed at hav¬ 
ing to relinquish their ideal of a country up¬ 
bringing for children; but, since the bread¬ 
winner is tethered to some city, and two 
establishments are impossible, they are reluc¬ 
tantly compelled to consign their family to a 
town home. 

Themselves country bred, they feel that in 
so doing they are cutting them off from a part 
of childhood’s birthright of loveliness and 
liberty, and handicapping them in the acquisi¬ 
tion of health and happiness. They sigh fare¬ 
well to their cherished dream of bronzed, 
barefoot, open-air young Titans growing in 
sun and shower. Haunted by the phrase 
“city sparrows,” they picture their children 
breathing soot, drinking adulterated milk, 
wearing gloves, “cribbed, cabined, confined,” 
and hopelessly out of touch with nature. 

[ 80 ] 


CONDEMNED TO TOWN 

They foresee them growing up to associate 
milk with cans in rattling carts instead of with 
cows in fields of clover, apples with crowded 
shops rather than with loaded trees, and ani¬ 
mals with smug domesticity instead of with 
romantic wildness. 

They anticipate reduced growth, subdued 
spirits and precocious sophistication—bodies 
and souls, so to speak, soot-smirched instead 
of dew-drenched. 

Who shall gainsay that the advantages of 
being brought up in the country are indeed 
very great ? 

To love one particular portion of earth’s 
loveliness with that passion only felt towards 
the home of childhood, is amongst the luxuries 
of life—seeming, indeed, to give a firm planting 
to the feet, a balance, standard and tradition 
almost amounting to a certain serenity of soul. 

For a boy there is no education like being 
given the freedom of the farm or of the village 
smithy; and, in having somewhere to keep 
your own rabbits, and in feeding the hen that 
lays your breakfast, there lies a satisfaction 
difficult to put into words. 

Wordsworth-loving mothers grieve that their 

[ 81 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

children should be surrounded by houses in¬ 
stead of by hills, and fall asleep to the noise 
of traffic instead of to the music of running 
water. 

“And she shall lean her ear in many a secret place. 
Where rivulets dance their native round. 

And Beauty born of murmuring sound 
Shall pass into her face.” 

Are their children’s faces to be bereft of the 
beauty instilled by nature’s gentle influence, 
and they themselves to grow up ignorant of her 
“breathing balm”—“the silence and the calm 
of mute insensate things”? 

But much, very much of this tender concern 
is uncalled for. Without questioning the ad¬ 
vantages of the country, there are, it must be 
conceded, from a practical point of view, a 
great many compensations for town life. 

To begin with, so far as health and happiness 
are concerned. I’m sure no mother need worry 
as to the influence of a London home. (I take 
London, for example, but the same arguments 
apply to any other large city.) 

Naturally the year should be broken by a 
visit to the country, and, if possible, by another 
one to the sea. August in London is certainly 
[ 82 ] 


CONDEMNED TO TOWN 

undesirable; but, after all, children whose per¬ 
manent home is in the country will also be the 
better for a change of air in the course of the 
year. 

As to supplies, it is the rather shameful truth 
that London is the easiest place in which to be 
sure of securing clean milk, and, of course, its 
water is admirable. Again so far as actual 
climate goes, there is nothing whatever to 
complain of in London. Statistics will bear 
this out as well as Nannies and doctors, and 
you have only to look into one of the big parks 
to convince yourself. There you can see a 
glorious array of rounded limbs, and sparkling 
eyes in countenances ruddy as David’s, hear 
boisterous shouts, and watch such romping 
as no sea or mountain air could make more 
rollicking. 

I think some of us are inclined to confuse 
London—the place—with the life we lead in it. 
In its geographical position and natural condi¬ 
tions there is nothing to make us feel tired or 
teased. Children are not subjected to any of 
the fever and fret of grown-up town life. With 
the blissful concentration of their age, they are 
absorbed in the moment, not poor preoccupied 
[ 83 } 


THE CHILD AT HOME 


slaves to engagement-book and the telephone. 

Grown-up people crave for silence, greenery 
and open skies to soothe strained nerves. 
Children, however much they would delight 
in country joys, have no exasperations from 
which they long for relief, and for all their 
appreciation of streams, trees and fields they 
are probably without any corresponding aver¬ 
sion to traffic, smoke and crowds. 

Naturally some districts in London are too 
dingy and cooped up for children. Houses 
overlooking roaring streets or far from any 
park or garden are unsuitable, for it is very in¬ 
convenient not to be within easy distance of 
the nearest playground. 

Not that walks in streets are not very enter¬ 
taining to children. There is much to see and 
hear, particularly on the days when the so- 
greatly-to-be-envied workmen are “playing” 
with the road. How unfairly privileged I 
used to think them, and how one longed to join 
in their frolics with pickaxe and lime! Were 
they not even allowed to play with flames. 
Then buses, shops and policeman are a very 
long time in becoming commonplace; there 
is always a sporting chance of a fire-engine; 

[ 84 ] 


CONDEMNED TO TOWN 

and, trying to avoid treading on the cracks in 
the pavement is one of the very best games to 
play with yourself. 

But if very many streets have to be gone 
through, and several critical crossings traversed, 
short legs will be tired before their destination 
is reached, and it will be time to start home 
again as soon as the hoops have really got 
bowling. 

In a provincial town it will probably be best 
to have a house rather on its fringe; in London, 
to be really close to one of the big parks— 
“the lungs of London”—will make the whole 
difference to daily life. Take Regent’s Park. 
What could be better for children than a house 
actually inside it ? Nurses may prefer Hyde 
Park, where the smartest prams parade, but, 
besides being in the best air. Regent’s Park 
is far more like real country, and allows of the 
most untrammelled romping. Football matches 
take the place of mob-oratory, and it abounds 
in delights, from bread-gobbling ducks and 
friendly grey squirrels, to the distant jungle- 
roar from the Zoo. Though no inevitable 
noise of traffic disturbs the senses, while green¬ 
ery predominates and silence prevails at night, 
[ 85 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

yet you are not in the least cut off from the 
town, and, whenever the spirit moves, can 
emerge into all the glamour of streets, shops 
and buses. 

Besides the advantages of having both the 
companionship of other children and the 
doubtful pleasures of sight-seeing always avail¬ 
able, another great compensation to London 
mothers is the relative facility of education. 

That recurring difficulty, the resident gover¬ 
ness, is solved, for daily schools or excellent 
classes of every kind are within easy reach, 
and children can thus, without premature ban¬ 
ishment from home, benefit by having expert 
teachers for various subjects, instead of one 
woman wearied by a monotonous life. 

Again, there is the indisputable irony that it 
is far easier for London children to become 
proficient at most out-of-door things. Year 
after year country children vainly wait in 
winter for the pond to bear—in summer for it 
to be considered sufficiently warm for bathing; 
whereas in London, at a very small expense, 
they may quickly become expert swimmers 
and skaters. 

So far from necessarily growing up in igno- 

[ 86 ] 


CONDEMNED TO TOWN 

ranee of nature, many children will appreciate 
its wonders and beauties all the more con¬ 
sciously, owing to coming on them with some¬ 
thing of a shock instead of having them always 
spread before their eyes and taken as a matter 
of course. 

On an occasional visit to the country there 
is no child with soul so dead as not to be en¬ 
raptured both by the open sky above his head 
and the soft ground beneath his feet, and with 
all the birds that sing and the creatures that 
crawl. He will be as greatly excited at the 
spectacle of cows and sheep and other common¬ 
places of the landscape as country children are 
by traffic, policemen and shop windows; and 
rural noises are likely to be more disturbing to 
his slumbers than is the din of a town to un¬ 
accustomed ears. 

He will want to conquer every hill, climb 
every tree, pick every flower he sees; and no 
day will be long enough for his “ enterprises 
of great moment/' 

His astonishment stimulates his curiosity, 
and, if his eager questions are answered, he is 
likely to learn far more of the names of animals, 
birds and plants than the natives of the soil. 

[ 87 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

In a blaze of excitement he may well absorb 
more wood-lore in a week than might an apa¬ 
thetic rustic in a lifetime. 

So whatever the more subtle influences of a 
country home, it must be admitted that health 
and education flourish without it, while spirits 
may certainly remain undismayed. 

However sad at being herself condemned to 
town, no mother need regard it as any impedi¬ 
ment to the joyful upbringing of children per¬ 
fectly satisfied and satisfying. 


[ 88 ] 


IX 


LEARNING TO READ 

“ Well may the bairn bless 
That him to book setteT 

William Langland. 

Teaching children their first lessons makes 
one wonder how some people ever managed to 
master the difficulties of reading. Perhaps it 
was that, in this initial undertaking, they ex¬ 
hausted their faculties and expended all their 
energies. Certainly many of them never seem 
to give any second proof of possessing the 
necessary faculties. 

“How soon do you think I should begin 
teaching my child to read?” 

Most mothers ask this question, and many 
are bewildered by the conflicting answers they 
receive from both doctors and teachers, for 
they are sure to be assailed with theories of 
every kind, and may well be frightened by the 
sad warnings eager propagandists will quote. 

On the whole, the present tendency is more 
and more to postpone the start of education, 
[ 89 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

and then to dally longer and longer over its 
kindergarten phase of slenderly disguised play 
—the silver coating to the pill growing yearly 
thicker. 

Tender parents shudder with horror at the 
idea of the curriculum that used to be imposed 
on eighteenth-century children. They, poor 
precocities, used to be well advanced in Latin 
and Greek by an age at which we still hesitate 
to put our children even at their first fence 
of the alphabet. 

Certainly we of this generation have shied 
very far in the other direction. 

Many different motives are given for post¬ 
poning the attack on Learning. Some parents 
dread precocious bookworms and—so far from 
encouraging any study—definitely prefer their 
children to read in nothing but, what they call, 
the “Book of Nature” until, say, the age of 
seven. 

They are, I suppose, so afraid of their chil¬ 
dren being distracted from finding “books in 
the running brooks” that they think it best to 
make all printed ones contraband ? 

Naturally no one wishes a child to spend 
those first brimming years of life with his nose 
[ 90 ] 


LEARNING TO READ 

in a book, but surely there must be ways of 
moderating reading, short of enforcing total 
abstinence ? 

Other parents have no objection to their 
children reading—would even welcome so safe 
and quiet an occupation, but they have been 
warned by some child-doctor against “forcing” 
the infant mind. 

Obviously any premature real strain is bad, 
but it is not so easy to judge what particular 
form of exercise may cause it. Impossible to 
prevent a child’s automatic use of his brain. 
How can one even know, far less control, his 
spontaneous exertions ? 

When everything is so new, without any 
actual teaching, he must inevitably be learning 
from morning to night—continuously absorbing 
ideas and jumping at conclusions. 

I’m sure that to many an active-minded child, 
to be set down to so relatively mechanical a 
task as reading, will prove far less exhausting 
than the make-believe otherwise ceaselessly 
indulged in. 

Excitement is tiring, and one never knows 
how much a child may be taking out of himself 
through his imagination. The wear and tear 
[ 91 } 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

of all the “Let’s pretend” games must cer¬ 
tainly be very considerable. Think how many 
palpitating adventures lively children will cram 
into one glorious hour of crowded life. 

During the few minutes I recently spent 
with a three-year-old, we “fell down drains— 
swallowed fishes—were gulped by whales”— 
and the climax was “Let’s pretend we’re on a 
tiger, and he’s killing us!” All this, no doubt, 
was quite an everyday programme. 

Surely, in such a case, lessons would be a 
comparative rest, so to speak, temporarily 
putting the engine on railway lines and thus 
economizing energy. To direct activity is not 
to increase it. 

But, according to some doctors, it is precisely 
this claiming of concentration which is injuri¬ 
ous. Forced attention, they urge, is the strain, 
not activity. 

It is, of course, impossible to generalize— 
so much depending on the individual, and each 
mother must observe the effect of lessons on her 
own child’s nervous system. In any case the 
first ones should be very short—not more than 
ten minutes at a time; but, in my opinion, 
at three or at four years old, a normal child 
[ 92 ] 


LEARNING TO READ 

will benefit all round by learning his letters, 
and if he begins at that age, by the time he is 
six he should, without any undue pressing, be 
able to read quite easy books. 

After all, reading is the indispensable first 
step to all education, and to defer its attain¬ 
ment over-long, is heavily to handicap a child 
in the course he must run. 

The conquest of the Alphabet itself can be 
carried out in the most playful way; in fact, 
I have seen many children of three—blissfully 
unconscious of playing to their own or to any 
one else’s advantage—preferring “letters” to 
any other game. By being given another of 
those large wooden block letters every few days, 
they gradually, without any effort, get to know 
the shapes of all the twenty-six by sight, and 
then they are generally very amused at recog¬ 
nizing their old friends in the pages of books. 

It is indeed extraordinary what delight some 
children get out of letters, and how they will be 
for ever seeing their forms in other objects— 
especially in morsels of food. A very favourite 
game is to bite pieces of bread into the shapes 
of various letters. By the way, the alphabet 
can be got in chocolate biscuits—a most en- 
[ 93 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

chanting provision for those who favour the 
school of “Play while you learn” and “Learn 
while you play. ” The great delight—a reward 
for recognizing the letters—is to be allowed, by 
accurate bites, to convert a B into a P, or an E 
into an F. 

A macaroni alphabet is also provided to 
enliven chicken broth. 

Isolated letters are, however, only child’s 
play, and it is after the mastery of the alphabet 
that the real trouble begins. It is now no 
longer possible entirely to camouflage education 
as play, neither is it desirable after five years 
old. The time has now come for effort to be 
taught as an end in itself. That the child 
should learn to tackle difficulty, is more im¬ 
portant than his acquiring any particular frac¬ 
tion of knowledge in question, just as the 
exercise of walking to a particular place may 
be your real object in going there, and to drive 
you to your destination would be to defeat 
your purpose. 

There is now no necessity to persevere in 
trying to make out that lessons are all play, 
for children will so quickly imbibe the idea of 
“The labour we delight in physics pain.” 

[ 94 ] 


LEARNING TO READ 

Fashions in education vary almost as much 
as in dress, and there are a great many differ¬ 
ent methods of teaching reading—roughly di¬ 
viding themselves into two systems, by one 
of which it is taught by the ear and the other 
by the eye, and it should be quite easy to dis¬ 
cover to which method a child is most respon¬ 
sive. 

“Reading without tears,” or “Tears with¬ 
out reading,” as I used to call it—though good 
of its kind, is antiquated. The resemblance 
claimed between letters and objects seems 
strained, and all but the most abject children 
soon weary of its fatuous and disconnected 
sentences. Such incredible statements as “I 
met ten pigs in a gig”—“I met ten figs in a 
gig,” “I met ten wigs in a gig,” cannot hold 
their attention, and supply no motive for 
struggling to decipher the succeeding lines. 
No, there should be some sequence in the very 
first reading book. It is quite easy, out of 
monosyllables, to construct some simple tale, 
which will keep the children interested from 
page to page, and excellent primers of this kind 
are now provided in Standards I., II. and III. 

The extent to which children vary in over- 
[ 95 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

coming the difficulties of reading is quite ex¬ 
traordinary. 

Encouraging precedents abound for the most 
extreme degrees of both quickness and of slow¬ 
ness, and no mother should attach much im¬ 
portance to the pace of progress. 

One hears of infant prodigies, who seemed 
to have read by instinct without ever actually 
being taught. They will tell you they cannot 
remember the process of learning, or will claim 
to have taught themselves by means of the 
names written over shops and so on. Others, 
very likely ultimately to be in no way their 
intellectual inferiors, experience the utmost 
difficulty—their strange slowness being the 
despair of their parents. The explanation may 
often lie in unsuspected eye-trouble, and an 
oculist should always be consulted. How often 
has a child been unjustly accused of stupidity 
and indolence when all that was required was a 
pair of spectacles. 

On the whole, the most gifted children are 
probably, as a rule, not the easiest to teach to 
read. 

A lively imagination is very often a distrac¬ 
tion, the more pedestrian faculty of concentra- 
[ 96 ] 


LEARNING TO READ 

tion being what is required for the conquest of 
words and sentences. Equally a very good 
memory may prove a stumbling-block—giving 
the child a tendency to learn each particular 
word by heart, instead of getting at the general 
principle, which would enable him to negotiate 
new words. 

I have found those cardboard letters, used 
in the word-making and word-taking game, very 
helpful; constructing words with them being 
an agreeable change to poring over the baffling 
page. 

The great thing is to avoid discouragement, 
and, when they have made a little progress, a 
good plan is to give the pupil some favourite 
passage almost known by heart. The easy 
recognition of words—half read, half remem¬ 
bered, will be found flattering and stimulating. 

Later on all unknown words encountered 
should be copied out—reading, writing and 
spelling thus advancing hand in hand. 

It is often very difficult to know whether a 
child’s progress—its rapidity or slowness—is 
most to be attributed to mental or to psycho¬ 
logical qualities. An industrious child will out¬ 
strip an indolent one of far greater natural 
[ 97 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

ability, and, quite apart from either capacity or 
energy, there are so many possible incentives 
and impediments to be taken into consideration. 

One child is naturally competitive, and it is 
the desire to excel others which spurs him on. 
Another has such an appetite for books, that 
the ambition to be able to read them to himself 
drives him to similar strenuous efforts. 

On the other hand, some children are alike 
indifferent to credit and to books, and, seeing 
no intrinsic reward for uncongenial labour, 
have no will to learn, and can be neither bribed 
nor shamed into effort. 

Others again may love books but, being read 
to as much as they like, see no reason to exert 
themselves. These it should be easy to starve 
into learning by cutting off all reading aloud. 

Then there are some children who will be 
mainly actuated by an amiable desire to please 
their teacher. They work for smiles and ap¬ 
preciative words, and, in their case, care must 
be taken not to overdrive a willing horse. 

One way and another the varying degrees of 
goodwill children bring into the schoolroom is 
quite astonishing. 

Some, inclined to be on the defensive, are 
[ 98 ] 


LEARNING TO READ 

even suspicious of the first playful preliminaries, 
seeming to regard the acquisition of any knowl¬ 
edge as something which may thereafter be 
used against them. 

Perhaps their reluctance to learn is actuated 
by the same prudent principle on which (fore¬ 
seeing hours spent in looking out other people’s 
trains) one refrains from learning the use of 
the Bradshaw. 

The progress of such children will be apt to 
resemble that of the donkey. How tiring it is 
incessantly to use the goad! And if they are 
neither amiable nor ambitious, where, in their 
case, is one to find the proverbial carrot ? 

Many children, on the contrary, from the 
very outset, feel themselves to be forging a 
weapon for their own use. These it will be 
delightful to teach, for, having the sense to 
realize that they are learning for their own 
sakes, and, by present effort, purchasing un¬ 
told delights, they put all their hearts into their 
reading, rising gallantly at new words like a 
horse at a fence. 


[ 99 ] 


X 


GOING FOR A WALK 

“I heard the skylark warbling in the sky l 
And I bethought me of the playful hare , 

Even such a happy child of Earth am I; 

Even as these blissful creatures do I fare; 

Far from the world I walk and from all care.” 

Wordsworth. 

There is no better test of a grown-up per¬ 
son’s capacity to be the companion of children 
than his or her ability to conduct a walk in 
such a way as to make them anxious to repeat 
the experience; and, in engaging a governess to 
look after those whose home is in the country, 
it would be much more important to satisfy 
yourself as to this point, than to find out how 
good a degree she had taken. 

“Let’s go for a walk.” What varying 
prospects lay in those words, and how very 
differently the invitation fell on your ears 
according to who happened to be the speaker. 
There were those who had the art to turn a 
walk into an adventure, giving you thrills as 
of an explorer, and to go through familiar 
[ 100 ] 


V 


GOING FOR A WALK 


country under their guidance was like walking 
into a romantic picture, hitherto only seen flat 
on the wall. 

On the other hand, with others (the hope¬ 
lessly “grown-up” in the invidious sense of the 
word) the outing was made a mere business of 
—the dreary means to the uninspiring end of 
exercise. You went so far and no farther along 
a road, turning back, if you please, not because 
you were tired, or the way dull, but because it 
was time ! 

The right kind of “grown-up,” so far from 
just labelling them, dramatized all the trees 
and flowers till they became creatures with 
faces and personalities instead of merely the 
owners of tiresome names which you were 
expected to remember. 

In their company, what enchanting shapes 
were seen in sailing clouds, and what meaning 
heard in the song of birds. 

“Oh, fret not after knowledge, I have none 
And yet my song comes native with the warmth. 
Oh, fret not after knowledge, I have none 
And yet the evening listens.” 

Then, what a joy it was to be out of doors 
with some one who understood the game of 
[ 101 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

trying to reach the horizon, agreed that to climb 
a stile was better than to go through a gate, saw 
the fun of wet feet, and even sympathized with 
your passionate desire to get lost. 

With them no kind of weather was without 
its charm; they knew exactly the right moment 
to suggest unbuttoning your coat, and when it 
would be nice to sit on a gate and eat the “iron 
rations” (they never forgot to bring) of choco¬ 
late and biscuits, whilst they told you a story 
or sketched out the game of make-believe to be 
played on the way home. 

If the return was long, they knew the wonder¬ 
ful relief to tiredness found in walking in step, 
and every stimulated stride seemed to fling 
you towards your tea. 

But, with the wrong sort of person—those 
who dragooned instead of dramatizing—how 
you prayed that it might rain, so that you could 
stay at home with your paint-box rather than 
be dragged out for, what they always called, a 
“nice walk.” 

Such people, apparently wearing invisible 
blinkers, would always obstinately keep up 
precisely the same rate of progression, whether 
it happened to be hot or cold, or whatever the 
[ 102 ] 


GOING FOR A WALK 


attractions of the surroundings. A uniform 
pace being expected from you as well, fingers 
were very liable to be painfully pressed in an 
unsympathetic grasp and your arm well-nigh 
dragged from its socket. Whatever the season, 
and no matter what it was you happened to be 
passing, you must not linger. There might 
be a sheep being shorn—a bird’s nest—a crack¬ 
ling iced puddle—loaded blackberry-bushes—a 
hollow tree—or even running water. Never 
mind. Out would ring the ruthless words, 
“Do not lag behind.” 

There was no day in the year on which they 
did not either grumble at the dust or the mud, 
and complain of the weather—taking rain as 
a personal affront. So soon as it ceased to be 
too cold, it became much too hot, and, in their 
company, the road really did seem to wind up 
hill all the way. 

Worst of all (would anything be more ab¬ 
surd ?) they could see no sense in your picking 
flowers you did not want to carry for yourself. 
They firmly refused to take either toadstools 
or icicles home for you, and would never notice 
if you had a stone in your shoe or a stitch in 
your side. Perhaps they completely ignored 
[ 103 } 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

the face of the earth—it might have been an 
undesirable acquaintance they wished to cut; 
if they had been blind and deaf they couldn’t 
have taken less notice of its sights and sounds, 
and as for its smells they were only conscious of 
the unpleasant ones. Or else (and these were 
worse) they would try and turn the whole land¬ 
scape into a lesson book, by wearying you with 
what they called “Nature study,” in reality the 
mere dry-as-dust recital of names, followed by 
an embarrassing examination of the inattentive. 

Not that natural history, even down to the 
learning of names, is not wonderfully attractive 
and repaying to children. Directly their in¬ 
terest and wonder in nature has been really 
excited, they will themselves clamour for in¬ 
formation, and there is no better way of enliven¬ 
ing the daily walk than the intelligent pursuit 
of natural history. But don’t begin with un¬ 
solicited lists of names and classifications. You 
must stimulate children’s appetite for knowl¬ 
edge before you can hope for its assimilation. 

Once they have learnt the delights of observa¬ 
tion, and really begin sensitively to perceive 
the delicate beauties and infinite varieties of all 
the different wild flowers, they themselves will 
[ 104 ] 


GOING FOR A WALK 

want to know what to call them, and will ask 
you for the right labels. 

A favourite method is to keep a botany book, 
containing drawings of all the wild flowers; and 
when a new specimen is found, brought home 
and carefully identified, to allow the child to 
colour the picture of it with his paints. This 
will fix the flower in his memory and keep the 
record of his discoveries, and with very little 
encouragement he will soon become an ardent 
seeker after all the 

“quaint enamelled eyes, 

That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers.” 

Where there are several children together, a 
most exciting competition can be got up by 
offering a prize to the finder of the greatest 
variety of wild flowers—three days or so being 
allowed for the search. 

Competitive blackberry gathering is also very 
exciting, the contents of each basket being 
weighed when brought home; and even more 
thrilling is the rivalry between early-rising 
mushroom pickers. 

If children bring home a specimen leaf from 
each kind of tree and trace its outline in their 
[ 105 } 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

drawing-book^ they will very soon know them 
all by sight. The ability to distinguish between 
the songs of birds is perhaps the branch of 
natural history which yields most satisfaction, 
and children should be given the chance of 
learning their “sweet jargoning” by going for 
some walks with an expert in this music of 
the woods. The more cultivated their sense 
of the personality of birds, the more likely they 
will be to show mercy and refrain from taking 
more than one out of five eggs, when the time 
comes for that (with the possible exception of 
stamps) most popular of all collections. 

Butterflies, too, should be recognizable. 
They will be none the less beautiful for ceasing 
to be anonymous; and if even the “creepy 
crawly” insects can be made interesting instead 
of merely disgusting, great will be the child’s 
gain. If only one could take a scientific inter¬ 
est in black beetles and centipedes, no doubt 
the physical repulsion would be far less violent. 

There are, of course, innumerable ways of 
occupying children out for a walk which are 
free from any stigma of instructiveness. Sum¬ 
mer sports are too numerous to mention. An 
autumnal one, which will keep them busy for 
[ 106 ] 


GOING FOR A WALK 

a long time, is trying to catch the leaves— 
“yellow and black and pale and hectic red”— 
as they fall off the trees and flutter elusively 
earthwards. To the superstitious, each leaf 
intercepted before it touches the ground, means 
a happy month in the coming year. 

Then there are always paper chases to warm 
winter-chilled feet; and if only the much de¬ 
sired snow falls, the far superior, “ Bear-hunts,” 
in which fascinating footprints take the place 
of paper. 

But these are strenuous pursuits, and the 
more stately “grown-ups” can comfort them¬ 
selves with the fact that most children will 
delight in a mere walk if you gratify them by 
raising it to the dignity of an expedition. This 
is easily achieved by determining on a particular 
destination to be reached at all cost, and taking 
rather an across-country route to it. 

You must establish yourself as the official 
guide, and exercise the right to regulate the pace. 
It is often difficult to know how long a walk 
may be good for individual children. In con¬ 
sidering distances it must be remembered that, 
at the start, they probably go two miles for 
every one they advance, as all the time they 
[ 107 } 


THE CHILD AT HOME 


are running backwards and forwards, first to 
one side and then to the other, like young dogs, 
describing wide circles. Also their disinclina¬ 
tion to own that they are tired must never be 
forgotten. There is so short an interval be¬ 
tween the “please carry me” phase and the 
proud one in which they scorn to admit fatigue. 

Their spirits overengine their small bodies, 
and they will often “conquer” a hill with 
smiling faces but hammering hearts. Their 
throats dry, their breath coming in fast, thick 
pants, on they struggle, all the more doggedly 
if they have just been reading Pilgrim's Progress 
and have their minds full of such instigating 
allegories as the “Hill of Difficulty” and the 
“Slough of Despond.” 

Even the healthiest child varies very much 
in his sensations of physical well-being and 
energy. 

Most of us remember days when legs felt 
crooked—put on back to front, or so short that 
one’s chin seemed almost to scrape the ground. 
Other days—those on which you had “the 
rompyness of the heart and the head”—what 
a delicious sense of buoyancy permeated your 
whole being. There were wings on your feet 
[ 108 ] 


GOING FOR A WALK 

and your body seemed scarcely to weigh. Then 
to be alive was a joy, every movement an 
ecstasy, and the earth one large spring-board 
on which to jump and jump again. 


[109] 


XI 


PETS 

“ 4 Pretty Puss 9 will not feed a cat .”— Old Proverb. 

One of the things for which parents must be 
philosophically prepared, is to find nursery and 
schoolroom life complicated by the introduc¬ 
tion of various kinds of pets. However crowded 
the rooms and however over-full the hands of 
those in charge, it will probably.be as impos¬ 
sible as it is undesirable to exclude some form 
of non-human live-stock from the premises. 

I don’t suppose there has ever been so great 
an anomaly as a child who did not long to own 
an animal, the impulse seeming to spring from 
the earliest instincts. Natural enough the wish 
personally to possess so pre-eminent a play¬ 
thing, and yet this aspect only constitutes a 
small part of the delight of ownership, for does 
it not simultaneously satisfy the inherent taste 
for proprietorship, patronage and power ? 

As an animated toy no triumph of the shop 
could possibly yield more fun and occupation 
and, at the same time, what gratification to 
[ 110 ] 


PETS 


incipient vanity, for a child to find himself the 
object of idolatrous devotion, especially as the 
allegiance of animals finds such eloquent ex¬ 
pression. 

The welcoming wag of a dog’s tail at his ap¬ 
proach, the propitiatory purr of a cat at his 
touch, the wistful whining of a pony at the 
sound of his step. Watch any child’s face 
whilst receiving this intoxicating form of 
homage, and you will realize what happiness 
you can bestow by the gift of an animal. 

It is human nature automatically to become 
fond of anything you yourself feed and tend; 
and to find another living thing so simply 
dependent on his own care, has a very strong 
appeal to a child. 

To give children quantities of pets as though 
they were merely toys to be played with, which 
they alternately pester with attentions and 
neglect, just as the spirit moves them, is one 
of the most demoralizing forms of spoiling. 
There should be no sense of property without 
the cultivation of a corresponding sense of 
obligation, and it must be clearly understood 
that the pleasure of owning an animal is a 
privilege involving considerable responsibility. 

[Ill] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

Having his name engraved on the collar of a 
dog must be recognized as a trust as well as a 
pride by the child, who must daily renew the 
rights of ownership by taking real trouble, and 
seeing that his precious possession is properly 
fed, combed and exercised. 

Some children are allowed just arbitrarily to 
punish and pet, letting all the more onerous 
care of their dog fall on already overworked 
servants, and then they bitterly resent the 
animal transferring his allegiance to those who 
deserve it. 

If a little girl who merely says “ tweet, 
tweet” to her canary and sticks lumps of sugar 
through the bars of its cage, is allowed to leave 
all the trouble of cleaning it out to the house¬ 
maid, a golden opportunity for instilling the 
lesson that love means service is neglected, and 
the self-indulgent spirit of plucking flowers 
which you do not care to carry is busily en¬ 
couraged. 

Yes, the possession of any animal should 
always involve some effort on the part of its 
owner, or else much of the value of pets to 
children is lost. 

It is curious in what totally different ways 

[ 112 ] 


PETS 


children are attracted towards animals; some, 
apparently, through a precocious objective 
interest in natural history. These, if not care¬ 
fully watched, are rather liable to be cruel— 
more through curiosity than through anything 
else—the sensibility of animals seeming to be 
the last thing they learn about them. St. 
Francis of Assisi should be made a familiar 
and favourite figure in every nursery as soon 
as possible. 

Other children enjoy the sense of power 
promoted by subservient animals, and to this 
category probably belonged the boy of whom 
his proud mother said, “My son is so fond of 
animals, that I am thinking of making him a 
butcher. ” 

But most boys and girls are merely conscious 
of a spring of love that gushes in the heart at 
the sight of any animal, an emotion particularly 
aroused by the prettiness, absurdity and pathos 
of the young and helpless. This love, one 
not without a tinge of patronage, is akin to the 
maternal instinct run riot, and is apt to become 
almost an obsession generally leading to a 
violently missionary phase. 

The passionate propagandists not only de- 
[ 113 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

termine to be vets when they grow up, but go 
about slackening bearing reins, pulling up traps 
and releasing other people’s birds from cramped 
cages. How greatly such children suffer 
through their sensitive love for animals! 

“Why give your heart to a dog to tear?” 
Actuated by this idea, I have known parents 
try to protect their children from emotional 
suffering by resolutely forbidding any pets. 
Nothing for nothing. And without doubt the 
luxury of your love for an animal—as for any¬ 
thing else—must be paid for in anxiety, trouble 
and sorrow. Did not having to part with your 
dog make a journey a misery instead of a 
rapture ? All the preliminary bustle spoilt 
because his tail would be half mast at the sight 
of the ominous trunks, and, as you drove away, 
the anguish of seeing piteous paws and strained 
eyes at the window of the room into which he 
had just been shut. One of the sharpest pangs 
of my life was when I realized that my pony 
was not a child-horse and could not grow up 
and carry me through life. The shock of being 
told he was already old, and would die while I 
was still quite young! 

Besides all the inevitable sadnesses of re- 
[ 114 ] 


PETS 


lentless fate, there are the appalling possibilities 
—not to say probabilities—of disasters with 
pets. The sensitive child who finds his singing 
bird a cold ball, lying, stiff claws upturned, on 
the floor of a neglected cage, all because he 
himself has forgotten to feed it, has little to 
learn from grief. 

But the precautious avoidance of the risk of 
tears is a poor conception of life. Immunity 
from sorrow is not happiness, and the child 
who has not loved and been loved by an animal 
has surely missed a birthright. After all, it 
is probably through animals, like ourselves 
sentenced to life and doomed to death, that 
mortality is most touchingly and gently broken 
to children. 

Perhaps the disillusionments connected with 
animals are almost more difficult to bear than 
the tragedies. That kittens turn into cats, 
who do not even recognize their mothers, is a 
fact almost harder to accept than death. 

Even if children are denied orthodox pets, 
you may be sure the instinct cannot be starved 
out, and almost certainly you will find the gap 
most inconveniently filled with unpleasing 
substitutes. Black beetles in boxes from which 
[ 115 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

they escape—slugs in a tumbler—a hedgehog 
in a hamper —anything so long as it breathes, 
rather than nothing! Worst of all, there will 
be innumerable attempts to rear wretched un¬ 
fledged birds from the nest: each attempt end¬ 
ing in death and in bitter tears, only partially 
dried by the pomp of a funeral. 

Far better to face the situation and formally 
bestow some interesting and not too trouble¬ 
some creature. 

It is wonderful how much pleasure children 
can derive even from the possession of wholly 
unresponsive animals. I defy any human being 
to establish a relationship with a goldfish or a 
guinea-pig, and yet what interest and enjoyment 
these unfriendly creatures give to generation 
after generation. Even a dormouse, how¬ 
ever painfully squeezed by its doting owner, 
remains sadly detached—one sleeve being as 
good as any other to run up—but these are 
pretty creatures with their bright boot-button 
eyes, and their wild nocturnal deluded gallops 
in the revolving cage are amusing and pa¬ 
thetic. 

Since these impersonal creatures can give 
so much satisfaction and occupation to a child, 
[ 116 ] 


PETS 


imagine his delight at being the master of a 
really responsive animal—one who can be the 
companion of his daily life and return his love 
with compound interest. The possession of 
an adored and adoring dog will be one of the 
greatest happinesses of his childhood, and his 
parents may well congratulate themselves on 
so orthodox an animal fixing his affections and 
sparing them from the fate of those less fortu¬ 
nate who may suffer under anything so smelly 
as white mice, so destructive as monkeys, 
or so preposterously prolific as guinea-pigs. 
The right sort of dog curled up beside the 
high fender, his tail “beating the drum” 
at a word, pleasantly completes the nursery 
picture. 

Almost every kind of dog has played the part 
to perfection; but of all breeds, the pug is said 
to be the most reliable in the ordeals of a career 
with children, guaranteed as he is to endure the 
most provocative of teasing. To be loved by a 
child is indeed no sinecure, and how much a 
patient dog will put up with from the small 
hands of his idols—lovingly licking them whilst 
they poke and pull—is amongst the most 
touching wonders of nature. 

[ 117 } 


XII 


IN THE DARK 

“Men fear death as children fear to go into the dark , 
and as that natural fear is increased with tales , so is 
the other .”— Francis Bacon. 

I suppose it is Fear—with the sense of 
Injustice for a rival—that causes more misery 
than any other childish emotion. 

Is it not one of the mockeries of motherhood 
that the adored child, so jealously guarded from 
all fatigue, draughts and germs, may all the 
while, unsuspectedly, be suffering far more 
harm from the insidious effects of fear ? 

To lie quaking in bed full of a nameless 
dread, may do more in an hour to injure his 
nervous system than a week’s serious illness. 

Much nonsense is talked about “hardening” 
children, and many sunstrokes and chills are 
due to the overriding of a theory sound enough 
in itself; but surely of all so-called “hardening,” 
the most foolish form is, through fear of moral 
coddling, deliberately to leave a terrified child 
to fight its fears out alone in the dark. 

[ 118 ] 


IN THE DARK 

That his fears are apparent is much to be 
thankful for (the unrevealed, burrowing kind 
being the most injurious), and every possible 
method should be employed to allay them. 
Yet how many people, for the sake of a prin¬ 
ciple, will persist in leaving a child alone in the 
black darkness they know to be terrifying him, 
by their mistaken obstinacy inflicting sheer 
cruelty and very likely doing permanent harm ? 
Better any sacrifice of night-lights and time, 
than to surrender him to such lonely sufferings. 

After all it is only a temporary phase through 
which he is passing. “Pampering” is harmful 
in so far as it encourages undesirable tendencies 
to become permanent, and one has yet to hear 
of the grown-up man who could not bear to be 
left alone in the dark because he was not con¬ 
demned to it in childhood. 

Though the effects of childish fears may be 
sadly permanent, their actual sway is only 
temporary, and therefore none of the arguments 
in favour of other forms of hardening apply to 
their treatment. 

By the artificial elimination of all germs and 
of all cold you leave a child's powers of re¬ 
sistance undeveloped. They will be atrophied 
[ 119 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

before the time comes when you can no longer 
protect him from the postponed attacks. The 
garrison army must have practice, since the 
enemy are always at the gate. But as the very 
nature of childish fears is to cease with child¬ 
hood, why hesitate to give their victim all the 
support possible until his own growth brings 
him naturally out of the wood ? 

By all means train your baby to go to sleep 
in the dark and alone. That he should do so 
is obviously wholesome and convenient, and 
the sense of fear should, of course, never be 
suggested to him; but directly you recognize 
its presence, and a consequent dread of lone¬ 
liness, then treat the condition with exceptional 
measures, just as you would any other tempo¬ 
rary trouble. 

Even if it were possible to remember all the 
fears of the known and of the unknown that 
assailed one’s small self—all the horrors that 
hovered in the “spangly gloom” of darkness— 
one would still not be forewarned and fore¬ 
armed for the protection of one’s own children. 

The shafts of fear are so innumerable that 
it is impossible to close all doors to their assault. 
Explanations are not bolts and bars. Entrance 
[ 120 ] 


IN THE DARK 


is gained through the imagination, and equally 
through the want of it. Experience sometimes 
opens the door, and the lack of it flings it wide. 
Whatever a child's nature and surroundings, 
fear will find out the way. 

It would take volumes to describe all the 
terrors common to children, but a few obvious 
examples clamour for mention. 

To begin with fears inspired by material 
things; there are the semi-rational ones due to 
ignorance of the laws governing objects—in 
themselves really dangerous. For instance, 
because unaware of the limitations of machin¬ 
ery, children, safe in bed, will lie trembling 
with fear of an engine, the screech of which 
frightened them miles away. 

Fear is as useful a safeguard as pain is as a 
signal, and no mother will wish to destroy the 
sense of danger in her child. One must not 
tell him that fire does not burn, nor dogs bite; 
but one can try and make him appreciate his 
night-nursery immunity, by explaining that 
dogs are tied up in kennels, and trains confined 
to railway lines. 

Then there is the fear born from the shock of 
seeing something startlingly ugly. It may not 
[ 121 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

seem to threaten any special injury, but appalls 
by its intimation of the horrible and unknown. 
For example, a mask, put on with the best 
intentions, may often seriously frighten and 
haunt a child. No use telling him it was “dear 
Uncle Ned” inside. “But where is it now ?” 
he will want to know. The worst of this is 
that things not intrinsically in the least alarm¬ 
ing, become so from association. Owing to 
the shock of a mask, sometimes any form of 
dressing up—even the sight of a tiny child 
attired as a fairy, will awaken acute alarm. 

The fears of the imagination, or rather of 
the fancy, are legion. Children are apt to see 
personality in all things. To them, as to 
primitive man, anything in nature, from thun¬ 
der to the tree outside their nursery, may 
appear a malignant enemy; and their atavistic 
dread is busily fostered by fiction. 

Very often that which most frightens them 
exercises an irresistible fascination. Like the 
moth to the candle, they return to the cause of 
their trouble. If a child ceaselessly clamours 
for stories about witches, turning over the 
leaves of every new book in frantic search for 
their pictures, you may be sure that he is 
[ 122 ] 


IN THE DARK 

frightened by the idea of them, and preparing 
himself for a bad night. The fact that, theo¬ 
retically, he is a young rationalist is no protec¬ 
tion. I have often heard the words, “How 
lucky it is there aren’t any witches,” coming 
from the pale and quivering lips of children 
anxious to have their professed incredulity 
endorsed by grown-up people. Their expressed 
beliefs or disbeliefs have little connection with 
what they feel “inside,” and sometimes one 
sees them making the most pitiable attempts 
to bluff themselves into comfortable scepticism. 

But worse than any specific fear—even of 
witch or of wolf—is that mysterious nameless 
dread from whose cruel clutch I’m sure no 
child wholly escapes. 

Is there any one who cannot remember sud¬ 
denly sitting bolt upright in bed, clammy cold 
and with hammering heart, “distilled almost 
to jelly with the act of fear” ? 

Why this wholly undefinable terror ? There 
was no expectation of any particular harm, but 
rather a curdling consciousness of something 
lurking—a sense of infinite horror and evil. 
From this fantastic kind of fear, children are 
fortunately very susceptible to relief. It can, 
[ 123 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

in fact, only flourish in solitude. There is 
nothing more pathetic than the way a child, 
who knows he will be frightened so soon as he 
is left in the dark, will try to keep you in the 
room. He asks you questions, to which he 
doesn’t want to know the answers—plaits your 
fingers in his—does anything to delay your 
departure, except confess his dread. How 
seldom will he do this, and then with what 
reluctance! 

Is this due to a precocious sense of shame 
about being afraid ? Does he feel under an 
obligation to be brave ? Or is it sometimes 
through fear of Fear of which he dare not, so 
to speak, tell tales ? 

Every effort should be made, tactfully, to 
invite confidences as to their nervous sufferings, 
from children. 

Irrational fears, what psycho-analysts call 
“ complexes,” may often be exorcised, if 
tracked to their sources, by the process known 
as “unwinding” and may then be cured. 

To some children, loneliness is as positive 
a thing as pain. Darkness seems solid and 
stifling, and to be left alone in it induces fear, 
just as cold and fatigue admit infection. In 
[ 124 ] 


IN THE DARK 


the state of mind thus produced the quite 
commonplace grows creepy, and anything may 
become terrifying to children—their quickened 
imaginations giving to “airy nothing a local 
habitation and a name.” Surely, not to go to 
the rescue of a child whom you know to be in 
an agony from fears you have it in your power 
to disperse, shows an extraordinary devotion 
to theory: and how unkind to meet their child¬ 
ish irrationality with unsympathetic common 
sense! I remember once summoning up cour¬ 
age to beg my nurse for a night-light, and her 
laughing at my absurd trust in its beneficent 
beams. She actually said, “What good would 
a night-light be if anything was to come?” and 
all I could do was to bury myself under the 
bedclothes, hot shame added to cold fear. 

Of course, one was not so silly as to suppose 
that either the friendly night-light or the fasci¬ 
nating shadows it threw on the ceiling could be 
of any practical use against giants or hobgoblins. 
The whole point was, that the state of mind in 
which one believed in the very existence of such 
dread visitants was only fostered by darkness. 
Equally, Mother’s presence would be powerless 
to quell the malice of the weakest witch, but 
[ 125 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

when she was blessedly there, witches, so far 
from being expected—were safely stowed away 
in story books. 

This being so, surely it is folly to make a 
fetish of a child going to sleep in the dark, or 
to leave him alone with his fears. 

Needless to say, many of the acutest terrors 
are directly inspired by grown-up people, gen¬ 
erally, let us hope, through stupidity and lack 
of imagination; but there are criminals who, 
for purposes of control, deliberately play on the 
nerves of children. They govern with threats 
of goblin and ghost, and their wretched charges, 
having “supped full of horrors, ,, are sent quiv¬ 
ering to bed, there wakefully to lie in wretched 
wonder of a nightmare world. 

A great and frequent folly is that of turning 
a natural protection into a supposed peril—a 
common example being, with foolish threats, 
to take the name of policemen in vain. 

To how many children has the benevolent 
“Bobby” thus mischievously been made an 
absolute bugbear ? Then all the silly ideas 
implanted by grown-ups amiably anxious to 
amuse! “Take care nothing catches hold of 
your ankle as you get into bed! ” How many 
[ 126 ] 


IN THE DARK 


evenings were thus agonized for me, and what 
desperate flying leaps I used to take, to get into 
bed and safety. 

As though people and books were not suffi¬ 
cient, how often you frightened yourself by 
stimulating your own imagination to the crea¬ 
tive point. I remember dressing up as a ghost 
to frighten the housemaid, with the boomerang 
result that I screamed all night myself; the fact 
that I was by way of “not believing in ghosts” 
making no difference. 

Looking back, how difficult it is to analyse 
one’s fears, and one’s emotions and thoughts 
under their influence. How far did one know 
them to be subjective ? Did a fraction of one’s 
mind remain rational though powerless to 
soothe one’s nerves ? And what was one’s 
motive for sometimes screwing one’s courage to 
the sticking point ? Why used I to force my¬ 
self to solitary walks in the dark, past whisper¬ 
ing trees and stretching shadows ? Was it 
bravado, self-discipline, or was there the sub¬ 
conscious wish to reassure myself as to the 
absurdity of my own apprehensions ? 

Impossible entirely to protect a child from 
the influence of fear, but any one may have the 
[ 127 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

privilege of helping his escape from its clutches, 
and of healing the wounds already inflicted. 

No more becoming, love-engendering r6le for 
a mother than that of reassurance. In so far 
as children are capable of gratitude, it is towards 
those who soothe far more than towards those 
who amuse ; and to take away one fear is to 
inspire more love than to give a thousand treats. 
Your child has many keys to his heaven of fun; 
easy enough for him to enter without your help; 
but how often will he turn to you to release him 
from his hell of fear, and surely, surely, he 
should never look in vain. 


[ 128 } 


XIII 

AT THE SEASIDE 


“Shoreward she hies , her wooden spade in hand , 
Straight down to childhood's ancient field of play, 
To claim her right of common in the land 
Where little edgeless tools make easy way.” 

Tennyson Turner. 

Boys and girls whose permanent homes are 
by the sea must miss one of the greatest excite¬ 
ments known to childhood. I don’t think 
anything else quite equalled the rapture of 
“going to the seaside”—not, indeed, experi¬ 
enced in its full intensity on arriving for the 
first time before you knew what you were in 
for, but on all subsequent visits. 

Directly you stepped out of the train, bliss 
began with a sense of physical elation coming 
over you as though balloons had been tied 
under your arms and were lifting you off your 
feet. Who can forget that first intoxicating 
whiff of salted air ? 

As you drove along in the fly, and saw the 
familiar poppies drowsing in fields verging on 
[ 129 } 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

chalk cliffs, what innumerable delights came 
thronging back to your memory; and how your 
exhilarated senses revelled in anticipation of 
all that was in store. The glamour of shells, 
pools, starfish and seaweed—the feel of ribbed 
sand to bare feet—the joys of digging—the thrill 
of crabs alive or dead—glimpses into a fisher¬ 
man’s tarred hut—the bliss of paddling, the 
glory of bathing and shrimps for tea ! 

The unending fun of the seaside, imbibed as 
naturally and inevitably as the air is breathed, 
is certainly part of the birthright of children, 
and no mother should be so disloyal to her own 
childhood as not to try and arrange for a few 
weeks of such health-dealing delight. 

It is not necessarily a very expensive treat. 
The price of lodgings has come down again, 
and, during the earlier summer months, a bun¬ 
galow can often be found for a very reason¬ 
able rent. Where children are concerned, it is 
waste of time laboriously to hunt for some 
secluded out-of-the-way village, in which con¬ 
venience is probably sacrificed to picturesque 
solitude. 

The senses of “grown-ups,” with “eyeballs 
vexed and tired,” may well crave for complete 
[ 130 ] 


AT THE SEASIDE 

quiet and undisturbed communing with nature. 
But to children there will be nothing jarring 
in the noise, glare and glitter of a popular sea¬ 
side resort. Far from asphalt offending them, 
they and their nurses will enjoy the esplanade; 
and as for all the perquisites—the brass band, 
niggers, donkeys, “Happy-Snaps” and Punch 
and Judy, these are pleasures quite as intense 
and just as wholesome as the smell of brine, 
the roar of surf and the “rainbow of the salt 
sand wave.” 

So long as only man is vile, what care they ? 
Provided the shell-strewn shore abounds with 
rocks and crabs, they will not mind how many 
other human beings they share them with. 
But, for the sake of solitude, to plant children 
where there is only dull shingle instead of 
yellow sands, is real waste of time. 

It is the greatest pity merely to use the sea¬ 
side as an emergency resource—a place in 
which to recover from illness. Its value is to 
endorse good health just as much as to restore 
it, and only the well child can reap the full 
benefits, a convalescent being naturally cut off 
from many of the healthy activities. Very 
short visits are scarcely worth while, so many 

[ 131 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

children being actually upset by the first few 
days. Three weeks is the minimum from 
which to expect any lasting benefit, and, of 
course, the ideal plan is a stay of two or three 
months. This allows the children to become 
really brine-soaked. They look like sun-kissed 
apricots, and seem so thoroughly pickled by 
sun and salt as to be for some time, to a great 
extent, immune to infection and exposure. 

I’m sure the good effects of a summer at 
the seaside can scarcely be exaggerated. The 
children are, indeed, apt to become almost dis¬ 
figured by health, and their appearance may 
well be something of a shock to the vain mother 
who saw them off at the station three weeks ago. 
The flower-like faces, that smiled farewell from 
the train, have turned to terra-cotta and are 
decorated with freckles as large as pennies, 
their hair and eyelashes are bleached and their 
legs and arms actually peeling. 

Like many other things, life on the shore is 
far better arranged for children than it used to 
be. The sea urchins of to-day are much more 
sensibly dressed and managed than their parents 
were and revel in undreamt-of liberty. 

I remember when paddling was a very sol- 
[ 132 ] 


AT THE SEASIDE 

emn ritual. The thermometer was consulted, 
and the weather had to be pronounced exactly 
favourable before permission was given. Even 
then, only two minutes by the clock, and out I 
was pulled and my feet were ruthlessly, if in¬ 
effectually dried, to be thrust—all sandy and 
sticky—back into the bathos of stockings and 
shoes. 

Nowadays children are really given the free¬ 
dom of the shore, and in warm weather they 
leave shoes and stockings in their proper place 
at home, and run in and out of the sea, at will, 
all day long. Their legs are only dried by the 
sea, and it is precisely this steady salt-satura¬ 
tion which, provided they are kept warm, is 
so splendidly strengthening to growing limbs. 
Each child should be equipped with a pair of 
oilskin paddlers. They can be worn over any 
ordinary clothes, and will keep them dry 
through any amount of wading or sitting in 
pools. 

With a healthy baby this treatment cannot 
be started too soon. Could there be a more 
delightful and painless way of learning to 
walk ? To totter barefoot over damp salubri¬ 
ous sands, and after falling so deliciously softly, 
[ 133 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

to have the satisfaction of looking back on all 
the fascinating footprints made by each stag¬ 
gering step. In the case of a baby too delicate 
for paddling, sea water should be brought home 
in buckets and warmed for its bath. 

The occupations for children on the shore 
are quite unending, and so long as they can 
be on it, no indolent “grown-up” need dread 
those disturbing words, “Tell me a story,” or 
“What shall we do now ?” 

All the outfit required is a wooden spade 
(tin ones are very dangerous), a pail and a 
shrimp net. Given these, and the right kind 
of sand, a child will be happier than in any 
Christmas-tide toyshop. 

First, there is every degree of digging—from 
the baby making pat-a-cake puddings to the 
boy defying the tide with complicated castles. 
Then the burying parties in search of dead 
crabs—the rides on great branches of seaweed— 
the slithering scrambles over green slime-clad 
rocks—the splashings into populous pools after 
darting shrimps and the patient searching for 
shells, spurred on by the undying hope of find¬ 
ing cornelians. If legs grow tired, a pail can be 
made the target for a fusillade of pebbles, dried 
[ 134 ] 


AT THE SEASIDE 


crackling seaweed be popped, and the sand used 
as a slate for signatures and artistic designs. 

And all the wonderful variety of the sea’s 
appearance and behaviour. For days lying 
like painted glass, only wrinkling and breaking 
into tiny ripples just before it touches the toes 
of paddlers; then the thrilling, turbulent times, 
when winds roar, white horses toss their spumed 
heads far out to sea, and the waters swirl all 
over the place, where, only yesterday, you had 
your tea on the beach. You are cut off from 
the shore, now completely hidden by surging 
sea, but you walk on the wind-swept esplanade, 
peering through telescopes, and every now and 
then exhilarated by a salt sprinkle of spray on 
your face or an actual fleck of foam in your 
mouth. 

Though boredom is banished at the seaside, 
there is no truce from fear. Pleasures can be 
made very painful, and the yells of children 
being forcibly bathed are far too frequent. I 
don’t suppose parents could inflict more misery 
than they sometimes do in dipping and duck¬ 
ing children, abject with cold and fear. This 
familiar sight is usually the result of misman¬ 
agement. First impressions are all-important, 
[ 135 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 


and great care must be taken to avoid frighten¬ 
ing a child by its first bathe. 

It is often very difficult to keep accustomed 
paddlers within reasonable limits, but this is 
no guarantee that they will enjoy bathing. In 
ordinary clothes a child may be inconveniently 
willing to wade up to his neck, but announce 
to the same child that he is to bathe—dress 
him in a bathing suit, and behold him tearfully 
protesting on the beach, refusing so much as to 
wet his feet. 

It is a common and comic sight to see chil¬ 
dren, intended merely to paddle, revelling in 
an impromptu bathe, and others—orthodoxly 
attired for bathing—perversely refusing even 
to paddle! Tact should be able to prevent 
such sad miscarriage of a “ treat,” and the best 
plan is to allow paddling to develop imper¬ 
ceptibly into bathing. On a very warm day, 
let the child have its bathing dress put on, as 
though merely with the object of allowing 
more untrammelled paddling, and in all prob¬ 
ability he will soon be sitting happily in a 
deep pool, or lying chuckling with laughter— 
the waves breaking over his back. With very 
young children it is really wiser to begin with a 
C 136 ] 


AT THE SEASIDE 

pool, for, if they get knocked over by a wave, 
it may take weeks for them to get over their 
fright and hurt feelings. 

It is more often just the coldness of the sea 
that frightens them than any sense of danger. 
Once the habit has been established, varying 
degrees of temperature will not hurt, and chil¬ 
dren should be able to bathe practically every 
day; but for the first bathe really warm weather 
should be patiently waited for. The shock of 
very cold water, which takes their breath away 
and makes their teeth chatter, can be so ap¬ 
palling to children; and, having once experi¬ 
enced it, they are liable to expect, and thus to 
suggest it to themselves. 

Most children will prefer the Ring-a-Roses 
school of bathing to having swimming lessons, 
and mothers need not be distressed at their 
reluctance. Boys are often inclined to be more 
nervous in the water than girls, just as they are 
about riding. It is, however, a great pity not 
to take advantage of the chance of learning to 
swim, for there is no healthier exercise, and 
once their nervousness is overcome, they will 
usually get on like frogs. 

Much depends on the tact and patience of 
[137] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

the instructor who holds them by a rope, or 
puts his hand under their chins, while they 
float, supported by the leather balls, called 
wings. If he is able to inspire them with con¬ 
fidence, all should soon be well, but he is apt to 
seem rather a grim figure in his shiny black oil¬ 
skins. Sometimes children are less alarmed by 
having their first lessons in a swimming-bath; 
but here, too, they may look piteously cold and 
miserable. 

Whether happy or unhappy, no small child 
should be allowed to stay in the water for more 
than ten minutes. Then, after being well 
rubbed, he should be given something to eat. 
I don't think any food ever tasted quite so good 
as the mouthfuls swallowed after a successful 
bathe, just as your skin began to tingle, and a 
glow of warmth and pride suffused your 
being. . . . 

The importance of where you stay must not 
be overlooked in the anxiety to find the best 
beach. The idea of lodgings may not appeal 
to the luxurious or the adventurous, but their 
comfortable atmosphere and genial landlady 
can figure very pleasantly in memories of child¬ 
hood. How one loved the abrupt little jerry- 
[ 138 ] 


AT THE SEASIDE 


built staircase, the pegs for hats, and the panes 
of coloured glass in the door. 

Even for the “grown-ups” there can, if well 
chosen, be a very restful way of doing the sea¬ 
side. What a relief to have no running of a 
house, no bargaining with tradesmen, no coping 
with servants. Such a respite may be well 
worth while, even at the cost of simple fare and 
small rooms overcrowded with funny furniture 
and ornaments. Given the right sort of land¬ 
lady and a good example of the kind of house 
she occupies, there should be freedom from 
friction of any kind. 

If your party does not fill the house, it is 
better to go where there are other children 
than to run the risk of acidulated adults object¬ 
ing to the noise and litter of your own family. 
Some, disagreeably inclined, might even pro¬ 
test against the presence of pails and spade in 
the hall, and of shells and seaweed in the 
bath. 

There are different ways of settling with 
your landlady. If she be willing, it is much 
better to be on what are called inclusive terms 
than to leave matters more vague. So much 
a week is paid for the rooms, and this sum in- 
[ 139 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

eludes attendance, cooking, lighting, etc. Some 
landladies will entice with a much lower rent 
than others, but this is often very misleading. 
At the end of the week they may present you 
with a bill disappointingly swollen by “extras,” 
little beyond the use of the rooms being taken 
for granted, and separate payment demanded 
for baths, attendance, gas and the use of 
kitchen fire. 

Far better pay a considerably larger sum for 
the rooms on the clear understanding that 
there is to be no piling on of extras. 

The other important alternative is whether 
you are to be catered for or to buy your own 
provisions. If you are en pension you will pay 
so much a head a week for each person, and the 
landlady will feed you according to her lights. 
The kind of diet you expect should be clearly 
stated before the terms are clinched, and, if 
she is honest and capable, this method will 
provide far the most complete holiday, as you 
will be freed from any shopping or uncertainty 
as to how much you are spending. 

It is a great relief to eliminate all bills, and 
the agreeable element of surprise is introduced 
at meals. Your landlady must, of course, be 
[ 140 ] 


AT THE SEASIDE 

of the kind who, basket in hand, sallies forth 
to do her own shopping—pinching the fish, 
prodding the meat and burrowing beneath the 
“tops” of fruit baskets. Without taking com¬ 
missions, she should be on friendly terms with 
the tradesmen, so that they may give her the 
chance of the first shrimps and strawberries. 

The other plan is to buy your own food and 
hand it over to the landlady to cook. Shop¬ 
ping may amuse you, and you will be able to 
order exactly what you like, but you must risk 
any degree of food embezzlement. It is too 
great a bore to have to measure the mutton 
and count the lumps of sugar. The dishonest 
landlady is the exception, not the rule; but, all 
else being equal, to have the ordering and the 
cooking in the same capable hands should be 
more economical. 

In choosing rooms the chief point is to satisfy 
yourself as to the standard of cleanliness. One 
has had disagreeable experiences of lodgings in 
which that stale smell, mingled of cheese and 
musty upholstery, pertinaciously lingered; but 
it is very easy to find such accommodation as 
would satisfy the most uncompromising of 
housemaids. Beds must be adequately com- 
[ 141 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

fortable, and a prospective tenant allowed in¬ 
terrogatively to pummel the mattress. 

Falling asleep to the sound of “ eternal whis¬ 
perings round earth's human shores” has a 
great and soothing charm. The nearer the sea 
the better, but far too much can be sacrificed 
for the sake of a “sea view,” and small dis¬ 
torted rooms—their windows squinting for 
this purpose—are not worth the extra price 
charged for the privilege. 

Very spacious rooms cannot be expected, and 
the same style still prevails in most of them. 
There will probably be illuminated texts on the 
walls, ferns in the fireplace, and much evidence 
as to some relative having shown remarkable 
skill at the cocoanut shies. Where else on 
earth could so remarkable an array of “orna¬ 
ments” have been collected? 

It should be tactfully suggested that as many 
as possible of these breakable trophies be 
stowed away. Their presence is not fair to 
children under the influence of sea air. 

Far more important than the shape or style 
of the rooms is the temperament of your land¬ 
lady. The class has been much maligned in 
fiction, but my first-hand experience has been 
[ 142 ] 


AT THE SEASIDE 

most reassuring, and it is very easy to find 
excellent examples at all seaside resorts. Obvi¬ 
ously she must be honest and a thoroughly 
good, plain cook—no mean ambition, for rice 
and prunes may be wonderfully transfigured; 
and in addition to such talents, the ideal woman 
will be beaming and motherly. 

It is a curious fact that no seaside landlady 
is ever known so much as to go on the beach, 
far less to bathe or to paddle; but she must have 
a good-natured tolerance for these strange 
habits in other people, and she will raise no 
objections to “Man Friday” footprints on her 
stairs, for children must be allowed to run in 
and out barefoot. She will also smile on tem¬ 
porary boarders in the shape of the crabs, star¬ 
fish and sea anemones brought home in pails, 
and be ready to equip picnics and wring out 
bathing dresses at any hour. 

Of course she will consider your children to 
be the “nicest little lodgers” she has ever had, 
enjoy comfortable evening confabulations with 
their nurse, and have the art to make you think 
the admirably cooked sole you have just eaten, 
the very best fish that ever came out of the sea. 


[ 143 ] 


XIV 


MY OWN GARDEN 

“And when long years are flown, 

And the proud words , ‘Mine own ,’ 

Familiar sounds , what joy in field or bower , 
To view by Memory's aid 
Again that garden glade / ” 

John Keble. 

All parents who are so fortunate as to pos¬ 
sess gardens have it in their power to confer 
the very greatest delight. 

Imagine a child’s joy and pride in having a 
part, however tiny, of the garden allotted to 
him, as his very own. 

From the grown-up person’s point of view 
there could be no cheaper and less troublesome 
way of providing enthralling occupation and 
wholesome exercise devoid of danger, within 
sight of the window. 

And for the child himself, in spite of some 
inevitable disappointments, to initiate him into 
so productive a form of play as gardening, is 
indeed to give him a “blue bird” in the hand 
and the bush. Behold this year enlivened and 
[ 144 } 


MY OWN GARDEN 


next year endowed. For, by all the laws of 
childhood, thus armed with a watering-can to 
enter into conspiracy with nature—forcing her 
to be your playfellow—is certain to be an ever- 
recurring delight. 

It is indeed the most blissful kind of play, 
but play enriched with all the dignity of work, 
as well as with the charms of conjuring. 

What pride, joy and excitement in thus 
waving the wand of a wizard! For what else 
is it to transform little seeds from paper packets 
into miracles of colour and scent ? 

The digging involved is exercise as good as 
that on the sands; but, instead of being doomed 
to destruction by the tide, here exertion is 
dignified by taking thought for the morrow. 

The mere delicious dabbling in earth and 
water — the authorized “messing”— fills a 
child’s cup of pleasure almost to the brim, and 
added to this are the pleasures of proprietor¬ 
ship—amongst the earliest of instincts. 

Children delight in ceremony, and consider¬ 
able formality should be attached to the trans¬ 
fer of their portion of the garden. 

The plot of ground should be called after 
its owner, and no one, without his permission, 
[ 145 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 


must pluck its flowers or even walk in it; and 
when he begins to reap his sowing, let his 
endeavours be crowned by recognition. For 
instance, on one or two days in the month it 
might be an accepted thing that the flowers in 
the drawing-room or the nursery are supplied 
by him, and he should be encouraged to con¬ 
tribute to the decoration of the church—espe¬ 
cially at the Harvest Thanksgiving—to present 
birthday bouquets, and generally to look to it 
that his flowers be not “born to blush unseen.” 

In this garden he should be influenced to see 
a trust as well as a toy, and no doubt he will 
be apt enough to realize the solemn glory and 
privilege of being thus made responsible for the 
smallest portion of Mother Earth. There can 
be no better way of teaching him cause and 
effect, no prettier school of experience. 

All necessary tools can be bought in engag¬ 
ingly small sizes, and these, with his initials 
on them, should be given honourable place in 
the gardener’s shed. 

In spite of the fun of sowing seeds in the 
spring, what children really like is being able 
to stick some flower in full bloom in their 
ground and water it to their heart’s content 
[ 146 ] 


MY OWN GARDEN 

and its own drowning. So, in October, the 
month for the putting in of plants, the gar¬ 
dener should be able to spare enough to furnish 
the small beds. 

Amongst the simplest to rear and the most 
satisfactory in result are London Pride, Phlox, 
Forget-me-not, Pansies, Violets, Sweet William 
and the Southernwood — colloquially called 
“Lad’s Love.” Roses will be a source of 
great pride, and, with the little pink “Maiden 
Roses,” it is very easy to achieve success, their 
great merit being that they require no pruning. 
Of course some Daffodil and Tulip buibs must 
on no account be forgotten. 

Any of these simple flowers will make a good 
setting to the sun-flushed, dishevelled little 
delver—his curls scarce higher than their 
tallest petals. 

A kind and tactful gardener, though prodigal 
of counsel, will not detract from a child’s dig¬ 
nity by actual assistance, but leave him free 
to think he has done it all himself. 

Thus he will explain how a trench of potatoes 
should be laid, but most of the actual manual 
labour—the digging and depositing—can quite 
well be left to very small hands. He will talk 
[ 147 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

to him as a fellow-worker, inquiring as to his 
prospects, discussing the weather and con¬ 
gratulating him on the looks of his flowers. 

But, in spite of all that may be said as to 
the pleasures of pride and responsibility, the 
fact remains that what children really enjoy 
is just having a bit of ground sacred to them¬ 
selves, wherein they can mess and muddle 
whenever they feel inclined. 

A garden is, above all, the blessed excuse for 
watering themselves as well as their plants, 
and, unless there is a certain amount of stim¬ 
ulating encouragement from “grown-ups,” 
gardening may well degenerate into the mere 
glorified making of mud-pies—the children 
plastering themselves with earth, and impa¬ 
tiently pulling up plants by the root to find 
out how they are getting on. 

To learn to wait will be the most difficult 
lesson. Faith droops unless there is always 
“something to see,” and, in order to prevent 
lapses of interest, the aim of the grown-up 
person in charge should be to have something 
flowering in the children’s garden during every 
month in the year. This is no very ambitious 
undertaking, and perhaps the following simple 
[ 148 ] 


MY OWN GARDEN 


suggestions, all of which I have seen success¬ 
fully carried out in a small cottage garden, may 
be of some service. 

If your space is limited, all that need be 
dedicated to the purpose is a piece of ground 
nine feet square. 

All round this, plant an edging of Box, or, 
better still, of sweet-smelling Thyme; and let 
the new year be greeted by a bunch of yellow 
Aconites, their golden faces shining out of 
their green collars. If one or two little bulbs 
are planted, they will increase a hundred¬ 
fold. 

January must have its Snowdrops too, the 
prettier single ones being the first to press their 
white faces through the wintry earth. 

During February a gleaming Crocus should 
be holding up its golden cup to catch the strug¬ 
gling sunbeams, and bright Daffodils will be 
fluttering in the cold winds of March. 

In April the “pale primrose that forsaken 
dies” will breathe its faint sweet perfume 
beside the gaudier gold-laced Polyanthus; and 
in the month of May the Fleur-de-lys and any 
of the lovely Iris family should flourish. In 
June the air will be fragrant with Pinks— 
[ 149 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

either the modern great Mrs. Simpkins or the 
old-fashioned smaller white ones, equally if 
not more sweet-scented. 

In July the little gardener will have opulent 
red and white Damask Roses, to remind him 
of the York and Lancaster wars. 

By August the heavy-winged bees will be 
“made faint with too much sweet,” for in 
May the child—presented with a penny packet 
of seed of Morning Glory, one of dark blue 
and another of the turquoise blue Convolvulus 
Minor—will have made little holes in the soil 
with his stick, dropped seed into each one and 
covered them up again. He will also have 
raked a piece of soil, and thrown on it a few 
seeds of white Alyssum, the pure petals of 
which will now shine out from the mass of 
shimmering blue, rioting over that part of the 
ground where the bulbs came up before. 

During the previous autumn a Sedum 
Spectabile will have been planted, and in 
September “Flutterbys”—the Peacock, the 
Painted Lady and Red Admiral—will be quiver¬ 
ing over its glaucous flat leaves and broad pink 
flowers. October can have its purple and white 
Michaelmas Daisy for the child to pluck, 
[ 150 ] 


MY OWN GARDEN 

“Look at the little Miss Daisies I have made!” 
and, in November the China or Monthly Rose, 
put in a year ago, will be opening its mild 
pink buds. 

In December—if only the child has remem¬ 
bered to water constantly that greatest of 
treasures, a Christmas Rose, it will proudly put 
forth flowers of purest white. 

Thus all the year round there will be some¬ 
thing showing, and every month will have its 
miracle. 

As for vegetables, if no others are considered, 
there must be radishes and mustard and cress. 
Nothing quite comes up to the joy of having 
your own grown ones for tea. 

Such a garden should be the scene of pleasant 
toil and recurring reward—a school of faith, 
hope and reverence. And, in all the gallery 
of a mother’s pictures, there will be none pret¬ 
tier or more symbolic than that of the earth- 
stained triumphant little gardener, watering 
his feet and his flowers from a bright green 
can; himself looking like a wild flower amongst 
his meek subjects, all the “prim little scholars 
trained to stand in rows.” 


[ 151 ] 


XV 


A FEW INEXPENSIVE DELIGHTS 

“ Know you what it is to he a child? ... It is to be 
so little that the elves can reach to whisper into your 
ear; it is to turn pumpkins into coaches , and mice into 
horses , lowness into loftiness , and nothing into every¬ 
thing, for each child has its fairy godmother in its own 
soul; it is to live in a nutshell and count yourself a 
king of infinite space; it is 

“ To see a world in a grain of sand , 

And a heaven in a wild flower , 

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand 
And eternity in an hour A 

Francis Thompson. 

I doubt whether there is anything on which 
more money is unnecessarily squandered than 
on the buying of expensive toys for children. 
Not that these elaborate works of art are not 
appreciated by the young as well as by the old, 
but, though the sense of possession may be 
agreeably flattered by fine property, the fact 
remains that all the things which cost much 
money remain superfluities, not essentials, to 
a child, for whom, owing to the independence 
of his inner life, the maximum of enjoyment 
can be procured at the minimum of expense. 

[ 152 ] 


A FEW INEXPENSIVE DELIGHTS 

A child's ecstasy is fortunately not one of 
the things for which his parents will have to 
pay, since a perfect blaze of excitement can be 
lit by the cheapest offering or by the simplest 
occupation. 

Watch any child on Christmas morning 
quivering in bed amidst all the surrounding 
litter of paper and presents—his cheeks flushed 
and his eyes grown large and dark with excite¬ 
ment. How often are the most elaborate of 
the toymakers’ ingenuities flung aside, and the 
whole attention of the “man of great posses¬ 
sions" concentrated on a penny whistle or some 
such humble tenant of the bulging stocking. 

No child-lover need ever feel the slightest 
distress at the inability to buy expensive 
presents, for the little cup of joy can so readily 
be filled to the very brim, and no refinement 
from Hamley’s could fill it any fuller. 

The actual opening of a parcel is, of course, 
in itself one of the supreme sensations in child¬ 
hood; for, whilst you fumbled with its knotted 
string and crackling paper, something almost 
mystical in its vague suggestiveness excited 
you far more than any definite expectations 
as to the contents. 


[ 153 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 


Apart from your own pleasure in presenting 
those that have been carefully chosen and 
packed, quite unintentional toys will often 
prove the best, acting, as they do, as incentives 
to the imagination, whereas the elaborate ready¬ 
made ones tend rather towards its partial atro¬ 
phy. Objects to the purblind eye of a grown¬ 
up person apparently quite ineligible, can, as 
playthings, be invested with the most wonder¬ 
ful charm. 

For instance, to an imaginative child may 
not an ordinary towel-horse become quite as 
living and loved a steed as the costliest rock¬ 
ing-horse endowed with real hair, harness, glass 
eyes, and vermilion nostrils ? 

A child's faculty for make-believe is so aston¬ 
ishingly active that the art of play is a proudly 
subjective one. The very fact that he is mak¬ 
ing bricks without straw may indeed be half 
the fun, and out of these same bricks what 
cloud-capped palaces may arise! 

There is scarcely any experience the thrill of 
which he may not taste within four walls, and 
no sense of heroism with which he may not 
glow by bare imagination of a risk. 

Romantic undertakings, palpitating perils, 
[ 154 ] 


A FEW INEXPENSIVE DELIGHTS 

triumphant laurels* all are his for the mere 
pretending. For is he not his own wizard and 
thus enabled* with the drawing-room furniture, 
to equip himself for wonderful adventures by 
sea and land? 

Whereas a complicated finished toy, such as 
a mechanical train* can only play one part* the 
most humdrum sofa may by the alchemy of 
childhood, at a whim* be converted into an 
aeroplane, a night-express or a pirate ship. 

The carpet can become a surging sea, and 
the footstool an imperilled craft on which a 
small mariner desperately battles with the 
brass poker for an oar. 

But shipwreck and battle will not always 
claim their attention* and it is strange the way 
in which children will turn for refreshment 
from realities to make-believe* even though it 
be only to a pantomime of the tamest situations. 

For example, a child who has been wearied to 
groaning point by sitting still at table* directly 
he is released will often settle down and pretend 
to be at a meal, rapturously and with an admir¬ 
able gravity going through all the movements 
of eating and drinking. 

Similarly, for all his dread of going upstairs 

[ 155 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

into the dulness of darkness and sleep, he will 
be quite happy to spend many minutes stretched 
out on the sofa pretending to be asleep, breath¬ 
ing like clockwork, “eyelids lightly falling on 
little glistening seas,” and his carefully ar¬ 
ranged countenance only distending into a grin 
under close scrutiny. 

As an elder child when I wanted to read my 
own book, I often took advantage of this con¬ 
venient taste to gain respite from small brothers 
and sisters, and I don’t believe the trick was 
ever seen through. My equally successful out- 
of-door ruse was to propose a slow race round a 
field. The child who returned last received a 
penny, and many quiet afternoons were thus 
cheaply purchased. 

Amongst the other more domestic dramas I 
have seen rapturously enjoyed in the drawing¬ 
room are Christmas morning and a visit from 
the Doctor. 

Then the instinct for mimicry is a source of 
endless self-entertainment, and for these per¬ 
formances no properties are required. A tiny 
child will totter round the room, in rapid 
succession impersonating a policeman, a steam- 
engine, a bear or a parent. 

[ 156 ] 


A FEW INEXPENSIVE DELIGHTS 


“As if his whole vocation 
Were endless imitation.” 

However, people who are really fond of 
children will not be content with merely giving 
them the freedom of their furniture and the 
tribute of their applause, but will want their 
affection to take the concrete form of a parcel 
inscribed with the child's name. If they have 
the money they will delight in bestowing some 
triumph of the toyshop. There is no harm 
in this indulgence and an industry is thereby 
encouraged, but I do very decidedly think it 
a pity for a child to have his nursery littered 
with pretentious breakables, and so many of the 
most expensive toys are the most easily broken. 

In any case, for those who cannot afford a 
costly present, what an endless list could be 
made of bliss-bringing objects which cost little 
or nothing in the giving; and there is no reason 
why such things should not be presented with 
formality, and dignified by being made up into 
parcels with the full honours of string and ink 
just as though they came from the grandest 
shop. 

To give a few examples out of the thousands 
of possibilities. 


[ 157 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

Take an ordinary ball of string. What an 
inexhaustible delight to a child! What can 
be done with it ? What can not be done with 
it ? It savours of infinity. Over a mechanical 
toy it has the immense advantage of being 
unbreakable. It would be difficult to lose 
and—out of his great wealth—the proud pro¬ 
prietor may make others happy by cutting and 
distributing lengths. 

A ball of gleaming wire has a romance of its 
own, and a stick of scarlet sealing-wax gives 
happiness well worth the pain to fingers. 

Then an ordinary cork out of a bottle, one 
end of which has been burnt in a candle, yields 
rapturous delight to any child instructed how 
thus to decorate his face with blackened eye¬ 
brows, fierce moustaches and whiskers. 

Little rough boats, either ready made or 
fashioned out of fragments of bark or of cork, 
equip a child for that outdoor game, which, I 
think, fascinated me more than any other. If 
you have a convenient stream, there could be 
no more enchanting race than one between 
these small craft; each child choosing his own 
champion and presiding over its course with a 
long stick to poke it along. The particular 
[ 158 ] 


A FEW INEXPENSIVE DELIGHTS 


brook, which babbled so blessedly in my own 
childhood, was perfect for this purpose, as it 
continually disappeared under the ground to 
emerge at some other point in the garden. The 
excitement of waiting, stick in hand, to see 
whose boat would reappear first became in¬ 
creasingly thrilling as the winning-post was 
neared. Quite often one of the little vessels 
would get stuck out of sight, and then the 
height of enjoyment was to dam the stream so 
that its augmented current might dislodge the 
stranded ship. 

Not only are the joys of both make-believe 
and of parcels to be had without expense, but 
what innumerable treats in the way of occupa¬ 
tion can be provided for next to nothing. The 
first ride on the top of an omnibus! This is 
better than any subsequent sprawl in a Rolls- 
Royce. 

Fishing with a crooked pin tied on to a piece 
of string! 

The most supreme rod from a shop will 
surely never be wielded with greater satis¬ 
faction. 

The glamour of making your own daisy 
chain! 


[ 159 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

The most sparkling diamonds could scarcely 
bring the same romance of adornment to 
maturity. 

Then all the palpitating thrills of Hide-and- 
Seek are to be procured gratis; and in this game, 
I believe, the utmost pitch of human excite¬ 
ment may be experienced. I doubt whether the 
heart of the convict pursued by bloodhounds 
could hammer more loudly than may that of the 
small child hiding beneath the bed from his 
own beloved brother. 

And then, in addition to any pastime delib¬ 
erately designed for the entertainment of chil¬ 
dren, grown-up people are apt to forget the joy 
of their initiation into what are to become the 
commonplace experiences of life. 

To be allowed to pour out “real water.” 

Permission to “go into ink” (as school chil¬ 
dren call the promotion from pencil to pen). 

Posting a letter, or the one you receive des¬ 
tined to be carried and crumpled till bedtime. 
The drama of the first telegram—my own, one 
of mere birthday wishes, hung framed in my 
bedroom for many years. 

Learning the use of blotting-paper. 

Being out in the dark. 

[ 160 ] 


A FEW INEXPENSIVE DELIGHTS 

“Seeing life” by the first glass of ginger- 
beer or the “lemon suck” noisily imbibed 
through a straw. 

With what rapturous awe were these and in¬ 
numerable other experiences first attended! 

Then how easily you were imposed on 
through your pride, and made to keep quiet by 
being allowed to do something mildly useful. 
Next to being called “brave” or being en¬ 
trusted with a secret, I think to be praised for 
being useful was what pleased me most. 

Pasting newspaper cuttings into a scrap¬ 
book; holding wool to be wound; picking up 
ping-pong balls; cutting the leaves of a book 
putting water into flower vases. Any of these 
humdrum tasks can be made to seem delightful 
privileges to a guileless child, and, best of all, 
sweet flattery for a wet day was to be allowed 
to go and “help” the cook by shelling peas, 
beating eggs, stoning raisins or taking the “ tea- 
lashes” out of the pot. I think I always sus¬ 
pected that the making of toffee was organized 
for my own benefit, but it was none the less 
one of the most appreciated of treats. 

Then amongst the delights that have neither 
to be ordered nor paid for nor acknowledged, 
[ 161 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

one must not forget that admirable impresario 
whom my nurse always referred to as “the 
clerk of the weather. ,, 

For amongst the things in which children 
most excel must be ranked their appreciation 
of every variety of bad weather. A real wet 
day made a delightful change to routine; and 
as for snow, I remember actually praying for 
its fall, and feeling bitter envy of the children 
in stories who had the wonderful good fortune 
to be snowed up. 

The romance of floods was early instilled by 
the reading of Miss Martineau’s Settlers at 
Home , and I lived in the vain hope of awak¬ 
ing one morning to the sound of water lapping 
against my window panes. 

Any atmospheric extreme had glamour. 
Either the quivering glare of the day declared 
too hot for lessons, or the still whiteness of one 
so frosty that horses had to be roughed. 

To be caught out in a hailstorm was a real 
adventure, and a bad thunderstorm a magnifi¬ 
cent milestone in my experience. I remember 
some glorious ones at night, my enjoyment of 
which rivalled the rapture of a theatre; and this 
enjoyment was enriched by the satisfaction of 
[ 162 ] 


A FEW INEXPENSIVE DELIGHTS 


seeing other children absurdly frightened by 
the very roars and flashes in which I revelled. 

Again, one of the most valuable perquisites 
owed to the involuntary romanticism of child¬ 
hood, is that mere inconveniences appear in the 
light of coveted excitements. Anything un¬ 
usual was hailed as a treat, the irregular was 
the romantic. What fun it was to get your 
feet really wet—to lose your luggage—to miss 
a train—to wear a bandage—to be smoked out 
of your bedroom ! You soon forget how much 
you once enjoyed precisely the things which 
now seem most annoying; but shades of the 
prison-house are fast closing round the child to 
whom petty inconveniences are ceasing to be 
adventures. 


[ 163 ] 


XVI 


THE FIRST THEATRE 

“ But when we got in and I beheld the green curtain 
that veiled a heaven to my imagination , which was soon 
to be disclosed—the breathless anticipation I endured /” 
—Charles Lamb. 

In straining my eyes to scan the misty land¬ 
scape of my own childhood, amongst the many 
peaks of radiant excitement I can discern none 
higher and more glittering than that of my 
first play. 

Of all pleasures it was perhaps the most 
palpitating, and so vivid is the remembrance 
of childish rapture, that even now at the 
entrance to a theatre I am conscious of a slight 
throb, a faint stirring of the sensations of long 
ago. Through the means of one’s children 
the old emotion is to a certain extent re¬ 
awakened, for it is scarcely possible not to be 
infected by some of their excitement. You 
can almost hear the beating of their hearts, and 
your own pulse quickens in amused sympathy. 

What a delight it is to be seated beside a 
[ 164 ] 


THE FIRST THEATRE 

quick-breathing child instead of by a yawning 
dramatic critic; and what fun once more to 
find yourself wishing a play were longer instead 
of shorter. 

Of the many vicarious pleasures for which 
we are indebted to our children, this of theatre¬ 
going is certainly one of the most delightful, 
and to some parents it is perhaps a temptation 
to indulge themselves in its enjoyment too soon 
and too often. For, much as children may 
vary in the extent to which they are stage- 
struck, and whatever the degree of their sensi¬ 
bility, the first play is surely bound to be one 
of the most memorable milestones of childhood, 
and opinions differ as to how soon so thrilling 
a treat should be conferred. Probably in the 
majority of cases it should be postponed rather 
than precipitated; but your decision must, of 
course, depend on the nervous system of your 
own child, and your experience of his resistance 
to the effects of excitement. Hypersensitive 
children have been laid on beds of sickness for 
days after this crisis in their lives, and even 
while actually at the theatre emotion may 
easily rise above enjoyment point. 

The attempt to guard against this over- 
[ 165 ] . 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

agitation by a careful selection of the play, 
excluding the more obviously exciting, is not 
necessarily much of a defence. It must be 
remembered that to a child the strangeness 
alone of the new setting is so enthralling; he is 
quivering in the grip of the intoxicating thrill 
of the theatre itself, quite apart from the par¬ 
ticular performance taking place. Moreover, 
it is quite impossible to predict what kind of 
thing may strike him as most sensational, no 
play can be guaranteed unalarming to the un¬ 
initiated, and the mere music may excite him 
more than half a dozen murders. 

Who does not remember the walk along the 
corridor, with its delicious tremors of expecta¬ 
tion, and then—once within the magic precincts 
—the enraptured blinking at the general blaze 
and glitter—the musicians playing on one's 
very heart-strings—the awestruck staring at 
the solemn curtain (epitome of all mystery), 
and the shudder of delirious anticipation at its 
gradual undulating rise ? 

To a susceptible child the rise of that curtain 
will be the Open Sesame to realms of unim¬ 
agined romance, from the glamour of which, at 
the end of his three ecstatic hours, he will 
[ 166 ] 


THE FIRST THEATRE 

emerge in a state of stunned initiation far, far 
away from himself and his surroundings. The 
return to a humdrum existence should be soft¬ 
ened to him, and his bewildered preoccupation 
condoned. For how well I remember the shock 
of coming out into the everyday world of om¬ 
nibuses and schoolroom tea. You were in a 
dazed condition, and the apparent flatness of 
your own life compared with the glorious, how¬ 
ever uncomfortable, fates of the heroic beings 
who had held you spellbound, was indeed hard 
to face, this parenthesis of one afternoon’s expe¬ 
rience seeming so much more real and signifi¬ 
cant than your own yesterdays and to-morrows. 

Such an occasion is surely too immense to 
be repeated at short intervals. An impression¬ 
able child will have abundance of fancy’s food 
to live on for some time to come, and quickly 
to superimpose another impression is to be prod¬ 
igal of experience. 

The type of child most satisfactory to take 
to the theatre will for a long while, so to speak, 
continue to chew the cud of the play, vibrating 
with the aftermath of his emotions and con¬ 
stantly enacting the part of the hero. 

Thus his first play should not be regarded 

[ 167 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

merely as an afternoon’s treat, for, however 
paltry, it will probably be his inspiration, his 
mental and emotional sustenance for weeks 
to come. This being so, it is surely well worth 
while waiting for one with some real beauty 
and not too much horror, and one which can 
be read beforehand, for anticipation will en¬ 
hance rather than detract. 

Careful discrimination in the choice of the 
first plays is desirable more for your own sake 
than for the effect on the child’s immediate 
enjoyment. To him all that glitters will be 
gold, he brings his own fairy dust with him, 
but, as the words will be continually quoted, 
far better they should have some real quality. 

A child permeated with something akin to 
poetry will be a better companion than one 
brimming over with pantomime patter, and, 
unconsciously, he will be acquiring a standard. 
Though trash may taste equally sweet at the 
time, a play touched with real imagination 
will provide him with more sustenance. Any¬ 
thing in the nature of a pageant will be greatly 
appreciated. I remember one of my first 
thoughts was always as to how many people 
were to appear on the stage, and the more 
[ 168 ] 


THE FIRST THEATRE 


categories the programme promised, such as 
“soldiers/’ “citizens” and “courtiers,” the 
better pleased I was. 

Children who go to too many plays soon 
lose the rapture of complete illusion, and what 
a distressing sight is a prematurely blase young 
theatre-goer! Shades of the prison-house are 
beginning to close for the child who, lolling 
back in his chair, distinguishes one actress from 
another—discussing her professional skill rather 
than the personality of the part she plays, and 
compares this year’s with last year’s perform¬ 
ance. The spell is breaking once he becomes 
sufficiently detached to begin to criticize a 
play as a performance. To the happiest kind 
of child the illusion of the stage is at first so 
complete, that to attend a play is not so much 
merely to watch a spectacle as to participate 
in experience—to himself enter an arena. The 
emotion is practically direct rather than vica¬ 
rious, for does he not identify himself with the 
hero through all his vicissitudes ? 

Instead of “Shall we go to The Only WayV ’ 
it would really be more apt to say, “Shall we 
be Sidney Carton?” 

Later on will come other delights, such as 
[ 169 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

the fun of catching sight of things not intended 
to be seen—wires, lights and retreating scene- 
shifters, hearing the voice of the prompter, or 
detecting the make-up of the actress. 

Enjoyable as are these more sophisticated 
pleasures, children should never be precipitated 
into the later phase, and “grown-up people” 
will therefore need to hold a careful censorship 
over their own conversation. Nowhere have 
they greater scope for iconoclasm. I can still 
remember my pain at being told Mark Antony’s 
tears were only well-placed gelatine, and how 
greatly the information spoilt my emotional 
wallowing. 

To be made aware of artifice was to become 
preoccupied by the trivial—mechanical details 
forcing themselves on your attention to a degree 
out of all proportion to their importance. 

Then the derision and flippancy of some 
tactless “grown-ups”! What jarring offence 
can be given, what blissful emotions quenched, 
by their thoughtless remarks. 

It should never be forgotten how very much 
ground may be lost with children over these 
first plays. 

First and foremost, parents must remember 
[ 170 ] 


THE FIRST THEATRE 

that to arrive late at the theatre is nothing 
short of cruelty to children. You should be 
generous with your treat, and let them be in 
time to hear the very first squeak of the or¬ 
chestra. Tuning up is an eloquent invitation 
to rapture, and the sight of your children sitting 
in front of a curtain is not one to be missed. 
If it were about to rise on their own destiny, 
revealing their own wonderful fate, they could 
scarcely look more expectant. 

What angry contempt one felt for the lost 
souls who preferred lingering over coffee to 
being punctual, and would deliberately elect 
to miss the first scene rather than cut short a 
cigar. 

The fear of being late only ceased once you 
were safely seated, and even then there were 
many risks of having your feelings hurt. The 
cynical remarks, untimely laughs, and offensive 
yawns! Then the people who would look at 
one’s face instead of at the stage, by their 
inattention disturbing one’s own enjoyment. 
(I now know how difficult it is not to watch a 
child’s expression, and have even had my chin 
seized and forcibly turned in the right direction 
by one fearful lest I should “miss something.”) 

[ 171 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

Bad enough, too, to hear some one openly- 
rejoicing that there were only four acts, when 
you yourself were feverishly scanning the pro¬ 
gramme in the wild hope that there might after 
all be six. Worst of all, that callous, practical 
groping for umbrella and coat before the last 
words were uttered, and the final fall of the 
curtain left you in possession of so very few 
of your faculties. 

These are some of your chances for disgrace 
in taking the young to the theatre—apparently 
a ticklish business; but, fortunately, to fail to 
catch some of the delight of the child you 
accompany, is to prove yourself strangely im¬ 
pervious; and very little imagination and tact 
should prevent you from giving offence. 

I suppose most children will begin their play¬ 
going at afternoon performances, but another 
memorable milestone is the first evening they 
are allowed to sit up and go to a theatre at 
night. 

Then the excitement of the play has no mean 
rival in their rapture at being out of bed so late, 
and every other minute how eagerly they will 
inquire, “What time is it nowV' 

To a child another great advantage of an 
[ 172 ] 


THE FIRST THEATRE 

evening performance is that there is no such 
sorry anti-climax as needs must follow a 
matinee. Instead of returning with a headache 
to the tedious tail-end of a day, he comes out 
into spangled darkness, and directly he is home 
goes straight to bed, there to fall asleep, his 
impressions undisturbed by his own life, the 
sound of clapping still in his ears, and the in¬ 
substantial pageant only fading into his dreams. 


[173] 


XVII 


AT THE ZOO 

“When people call this heast to mind 
They marvel more and more , 

At such a little tail behind , 

So large a trunk before .” 

Hilaire Belloc. 

“How soon will he be able to go to the 
Zoo?” was one of the earliest of my maternal 
questionings. There is, of course, no minimum 
age limit. Perambulators being admitted, the 
very babiest may be pushed past cages; but it 
may well be an unprofitable pushing. What I 
wanted to know was the earliest age at which a 
child could reasonably be expected to “take 
notice” enough to give his mother and father 
the treat of watching him see the animals ? 

Experience has taught me that at two years 
old a child should be ready to begin this par¬ 
ticular form of pandering to parents, though, of 
course, to get the maximum of vicarious enjoy¬ 
ment you will have to wait until he is much 
older and able to run from cage to cage with 
[ 174 ] 


AT THE ZOO 


appropriately shrill ejaculations of astonish¬ 
ment. 

Certainly the blissful glamour of the first 
visit should not be too long postponed; though 
it is from later ones, with relatively mobile and 
articulate children, that you will be giving and 
getting the most fun. 

For children from four upwards I defy any 
one to suggest a better way of spending a fine 
afternoon. You combine air and exercise with 
your sight-seeing; and interest, excitement 
and amusement are continuous. None of the 
fatigue—so closely allied to boredom—of a 
stuffy museum, but a walk with a crescendo of 
enjoyment, and, for yourself, all the fun of 
laughing with and at your children. 

Weather is an important factor. It can 
easily be too cold for standing in stock-still 
contemplation, and the fatigue of an over-hot 
summer’s day at the Zoo is not soon forgotten, 
monkeys seeming to make one feel the heat in 
a way that polar bears are powerless to allay. 
A long visit is a tiring affair, and for children 
too proud for prams, to sit on their exhausted 
mother’s lap in a gently drawn bath-chair often 
proves a good all-round plan. 

[ 175 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

For the privileged, the accepted practice is 
to collect tickets from some member of the 
Zoological Society and wait until Sunday, when 
the gardens are only open to ticket-holders; 
but with the exception of Saturdays—which 
certainly is too crowded—my experience is 
that any day in the week is pleasanter than the 
so-called exclusive one. 

Those fearful of infection can avoid germs by 
not entering any of the animal houses; and in¬ 
deed there is plenty to be seen from outside, 
though to many children the interior of the 
Monkey House will always be the Holy of 
Holies. 

For children the drama begins with the 
excitement of “clanketing” through the turn¬ 
stile. I remember the thrill of its noisy ad¬ 
mission and the curious sense of initiation it 
gave one. The Rubicon was crossed, and for 
better or worse you were “for it” in the regions 
of fur, feather and fin. 

The adventure can by no means be guaran¬ 
teed an unmitigated pleasure. Bitter-sweet 
are many of the joys of childhood, and the Zoo 
is a treat that may well miscarry. I have seen 
more bitterly disappointed parents in this arena 
[ 176 ] 


AT THE ZOO 


than even at the seaside. They anticipated 
gurgles of grateful glee, and are appalled by 
yells of terror. Lions and tigers may be all 
very well in picture-books, but many children, 
dismayed at seeing them materialize, are apt 
to agree that 

“ Stone walls do not a prison make, 

Nor iron bars a cage.” 

No easy matter to allay their fears. “When 
I was at home I was in a better place,” will be 
the only opinion of a terrified child. Others, 
not in the least alarmed, will be disappointed 
by their failure to establish terms with the 
animals. Their part seems too passive, and 
their egotism is subtly snubbed. 

I have seen tears shed over the inability to 
catch a lion's eye, to take an elephant home, 
or to play in the “monkeys' nursery.” 

To some children the pleasures of mere 
observation are not sufficient entertainment. 
Something more in the nature of a definite per¬ 
formance is expected. “But when are they 
going to eat the manV ' I overheard a little 
girl ask, after impatiently watching a keeper 
pushing bones into the lions’ den. 

Others again take the Zoo to be a super toy- 
[ 177 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 


shop, and are audibly annoyed when told none 
of the animals are for sale. 

Some—a minute minority—precociously im¬ 
aginative and sympathetic, are distressed by 
seeing creatures in captivity. They discern 
the misery through the mischief of monkeys, 
are haunted by the pathos of their expressions, 
and, stirred to indignation by “tamed and 
shabby tigers,” they long to restore them to 
the jungle, to liberate lions and emancipate 
eagles. 

But of all types of children, the most dis¬ 
appointing to take to the Zoo are the apathetic. 
Presenting a suet countenance to animal after 
animal, they deny astonishment to the hump 
of a camel, the trunk of an elephant, or any of 
nature’s most startling designs; will take more 
interest in a cage or a keeper than in any of 
the specimens, or perhaps become perversely 
absorbed in the flight of a common sparrow. 

The majority of children will, however, be 
satisfactorily appreciative. Themselves in the 
seventh heaven of happiness, their faces and 
voices should go far towards carrying their 
parents with them. There is no more en¬ 
chanting sight and sound than children really 
[ 178 ] 


AT THE ZOO 


revelling in the Zoo; and what fun it is for 
grown-ups to hear their desperate attempts at 
classification. They may know only two or 
three names, and the most ineligible specimens 
will have to be squeezed into these accom¬ 
modating categories. “Bow-wow” and “Gee- 
gee” carry the young naturalist a long way, 
but I have detected a pathetic note of diffi¬ 
dence—a lack of conviction—in the tentative 
“ Pussy” (the only remaining label) with which 
the hippopotamus is sometimes hailed. 

Plenty of ammunition should be carried. 
Who has forgotten the joy of combining the 
delights of “Aunt Sally,” and of patronage by 
pelting bears with buns ? 

A short lecture on diet is to the good, or a 
lion’s rejection of a well-meant nut may give 
offence, I remember suffering pangs of morti¬ 
fication over my unappreciated catering. 

The star-turn never to be missed is the feed¬ 
ing of the sea-lions. Find out their meal time 
and be morbidly punctual. Surely the child is 
yet unborn who would not be delighted by 
the staccato barks of hunger—the floundering 
splashes, the simultaneous diving and gobbling 
of these pre-eminently well-tailored animals. 

[1793 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

So gracefully greedy—so rapaciously acrobatic! 

But don’t decide what your child is to enjoy 
most. Leave him free to distribute his time 
and attention according to the degree of attrac¬ 
tion exercised by individual animals. Impos¬ 
sible to guess what may most appeal to him, 
his sense of values being totally different to 
your own. Quite likely he will be more excited 
at recognizing the “harmless necessary cat” in 
the dignity of a cage than by his introduction 
to the hippo in his pomp and panoply of hide¬ 
ousness. Not even the neck of the giraffe can 
be guaranteed to make a sensation. 

There are some inconvenient uncles who, by 
injudicious bribery, court the most uncom¬ 
fortable privileges. They should be left at 
home. Of course there are exceptions, but I 
cannot believe many small children really enjoy 
having the entree to a wild animal’s At Home— 
shaking hands with a gorilla, cuddling a cub, 
or stroking a snake. Either they will be fright¬ 
ened (such liberties were the tip-top terrors of 
my childhood) or familiarity will breed con¬ 
tempt, and the creatures be stripped of much 
of their glamour. No, the beaten track at the 
Zoo should more than suffice for children’s feet, 
[ 180 ] 


AT THE ZOO 


leaving all such bypaths of exotic experience to 
sadder and wiser ones. 

One child’s bane is another child’s boon, and 
“rides” at the Zoo present bliss or misery 
according to their different natures. Take 
care tactfully to ascertain their real feelings, for 
many will be loath to acknowledge their fears. 
The most dreaded “treat” of all my child¬ 
hood was being perched, quaking and giddy, 
on a swaying, wrinkling elephant, or painfully 
pressed against the sliding, hairy hump of a 
camel. It was, of course, good to “tea-out” 
on afterwards, but the price was too high. 
However, to many boys and girls so exalted a 
position will be a source of supreme delight and 
pride. Don’t assume they are nervous. To 
some children a certain degree of fear is pleasur¬ 
able, and its conquest a thrilling pride. Watch 
their faces and listen to their voices as the 
elephant heaves into sight. To a sympathetic 
observer they are bound to betray themselves, 
and if anxiety really settles in their eyes, far 
better save their pride by a timely change of 
programme. Begin with a ride in the llama- 
cart, far the least frightening form of locomo¬ 
tion provided. 


[181] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

Any trifling with the trunk of an elephant 
was, I think, what most terrified me. How I 
hated the moist feel of that soft, twitching, sea- 
anemone-like purse at the dread end of it! 
I felt it would have a so much better use for 
me myself than for the inadequately propor¬ 
tioned bun I tremblingly proffered; and there 
was no message of reassurance in the incredibly 
tiny eye above. I would sooner have been 
eaten than confess my dread, but this doing 
the lady bountiful to “dear Jumbo” was a 
grim running of the gauntlet, and it was a 
great relief to find summer officially over and 
elephants no longer earning their livings, but 
safely interned in stately stalls! 

To judge from my own reminiscences, the 
privilege of initiating a child into the joys of 
the Zoo evidently requires telepathy as well as 
no little tact. Like every new experience in 
childhood, it should certainly be carefully 
“edited” beforehand, for it is far too startling 
to the sensibilities of an unprepared child. 


[182] 


XVIII 

A DAY IN THE TRAIN 


“ And charging along like troops in a battle , 

All through the meadows the horses and cattle: 
All of the sights of the hill and the plain 
Fly as thick as driving rain; 

And ever again , in the wink of an eye , 

Fainted stations whistle by A 

R. L. Stevenson. 

A journey is certainly one of the occasions 
on which it is an advantage to be the child of 
the party. Spared all the fever and fret of 
planning, packing and paying, his role is so 
agreeably passive a one. True, many of his 
most precious possessions have been ruthlessly 
swallowed by trunks, and the tempers of those 
in authority are apt to grow rather short; but, 
all aglow with excitement, he will be impervious 
to pinpricks, and probably revel in the pre¬ 
vailing pandemonium. 

The love of mere change as an end in itself 
is almost universal to children. However hap¬ 
py they may be, however perfectly placed, the 
[ 183 } 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

prospect of “going away” always fills them 
with joyful anticipation. Quite a week before 
the move they are on tiptoe for a flight, and 
soon begin to clamour to know how much longer 
they must wait with their prematurely-packed 
handbags proudly clutched. “How many more 
days is it still ?” “How many more times shall 
I have to go to bed here ?” “When will Tues¬ 
day come?” “Is it to-morrow now?” 

They might be awaiting release from the 
most painful prison, so feverish are their 
questions. 

Perhaps the kind and hospitable aunt they 
are visiting, and her indulgent cook, are a little 
saddened by their frantic impatience to be 
gone; but no offence is meant, and none should 
be taken. At a certain age any change is a 
change to the better, and the parting guests are 
merely exhilarated by the sense of adventure 
and filled with glee at the prospect of anything 
so unusual, so routine-smashing, as a whole 
day in the train. 

To the parents the thought of a long journey 
is by no means so alluring. Apart from the 
depressing expense of moving a well-stocked 
nursery, the process is generally fraught with 
[ 184 ] 


A DAY IN THE TRAIN 


fatigue and fuss, and often streaked with em¬ 
barrassment. To begin with, what an amazing 
amount of paraphernalia attends the removal! 
On the eve of departure their house suggests 
impending emigration; and—as the station 
bus creaks away under its swaying burden of 
perambulator, bath, cot and all the strange 
bulky luggage nurse decrees indispensable, the 
stoutest hearts may well quail at the prospect 
of the “sly, slow hours” to be endured before 
the remote destination is reached. 

In addition to what are said to be necessary 
luxuries, there will be a considerable amount 
of extra impedimenta. Probably a bird—from 
whose cage sand will profusely shower—and as 
likely as not a cramped cat mewing in a basket. 
Certainly there will be several comic toys, too 
precious to be packed—Billykins, Teddy bears, 
whatever may happen to be favourites of the 
moment. These must on all accounts travel 
“loose,” but may well be left to an embarrassed 
grown-up to carry through the crowded station. 
A father with so absurd an armful, holding the 
tickets in his mouth, and with his other arm 
hauling a child past the lure of the automatic 
machines, does not usually look his happiest. 

[ 185 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

As for the small travellers, the pleasures of 
experience are apt to fall far short of those of 
anticipation. We all know that in the train 
children must be fidgety, and may be fright¬ 
ened, cross, ill or naughty. Owing to fatigue, 
their fall, from the highest spirits to the depth 
of despair, can be so startlingly abrupt. But, 
as in all the vicissitudes of childhood, how 
much can be done in the way of alleviation by 
skilful editing of the situation. Certainly to 
any child, say over three years old, the long- 
awaited treat of a whole day in the train should 
prove an enjoyable experience as well as a great 
adventure. He will even feel something of a 
hero. I remember the sort of brave feeling 
that came over me when, at an unnaturally 
early hour, my boots were buttoned on for the 
day. 

The sense that a journey is an opportunity 
for creditable distinction, giving no little scope 
for honourable endeavour, should be encouraged 
for all it is worth. It will shed a glamour over 
the whole proceeding, making it more of a treat 
to the children and less of an ordeal to their 
attendants. Thanks to its influence on general 
behaviour, journeys may well take their place 
[ 186 ] 


A DAY IN THE TRAIN 


amongst the happiest of family memories. 
Nothing is easier than to put a young traveller 
on his mettle. Tell him his mother is tired 
with packing, his nurse occupied with the baby, 
that it is up to him to help every one, and you 
enlist an ally who may do much to lighten the 
heat and burden of the day by his prompt 
and cheerful obedience. Let “ travelling with¬ 
out tears” be the motto, and he will arrive 
tired but triumphant. 

Younger children are apt to be badly fright¬ 
ened by the shock of an engine screeching into 
the station. Nerves may well be upset for 
the rest of the day to the banishment of the 
much wished-for sleep. They should be well 
prepared for the noise beforehand by playing 
as realistic games as possible at home, such as 
“Puffing Billy” and, if possible, by being taken 
to a station to be gradually familiarized with 
the otherwise appalling monsters of steel and 
smoke. In the case of babies too young to be 
susceptible to explanation and very sensitive 
to any startling noise, it is often a wise measure 
to stuff their ears with cotton-wool. Thus the 
most infernal sounds may be peacefully slept 
through. 


[187] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 


It is a great advantage when the family party 
can monopolize a whole third-class carriage. 
Parents are then spared the additional anxiety 
as to what acts of aggression may be committed 
on strangers. By engaging four seats you are 
supposed to be able to reserve the entire com¬ 
partment, but you can never rely on this 
privilege being respected. Much can be done 
by a judicious tip to the guard, and one has 
heard of such unscrupulous methods as loud 
assumed coughing and sneezing, or really spec¬ 
tacular naughtiness! An empty third-class 
carriage can really be converted into a very 
good temporary home, and you will have the 
great advantage of choice in the opening and 
shutting of windows. 

Science has brought one great boon to the 
travelling nursery, for with the Thermos flask 
we are at least spared the difficulties and dan¬ 
gers of the spirit-lamp which made journeys 
with bottle-dependent babies trying ordeals 
punctuated by alarming crises. 

For the first half-hour or so most children 
will sit stock still wrapped in the enjoyment of 
the motion and all the sights rushing past the 
window. 


[ 188 ] 


A DAY IN THE TRAIN 

“Faster than fairies, faster than witches, 
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches!” 

The mere fact of being in the train is in itself 
an enthralling occupation. But this stage is 
too good to last. Soon “Tell me a story” will 
fall like a knell to peace on the ears of the novel- 
absorbed mother, and unless she obliges, fidgets 
are bound to ensue. The children will start 
repeatedly pulling down the blinds and releas¬ 
ing them to spring up with that flapping noise 
so strangely disturbing to less amiable fellow- 
travellers. They will proceed to climb up into 
the racks provided for “light articles only,” 
and their fingers will itch to tug the communi¬ 
cation cord. When there is a corridor it can 
be resorted to, and this will be a great relief to 
cramped limbs; and, of course, the visits of the 
ticket collector will be much appreciated, his 
fascinating profession probably being settled on 
for future careers. If you want to make a 
small child really pleased and proud, do give 
him his own ticket to keep and proffer for the 
pleasing punch. 

Any tunnel that they are lucky enough to go 
through is an experience worth gloating over, 
and, if the weather is favourable, the rain-drops 
[ 189 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

will run riveting races down the windows. 
This will fascinate children for quite a long 
time, but sooner or later the “grown-ups” 
will probably, in self-defence, have to come to 
the rescue. Reading aloud will be found very 
fatiguing to the voice, but there are many games 
requiring practically no equipment. Noughts 
and Crosses held me spellbound for ages, and 
there are many similar ones. The best of all 
train games doesn’t even require pencil and 
paper. This is looking out at opposite windows 
and seeing who can count the greatest number 
of animals. I remember the breathless excite¬ 
ment at the sight of a flock of sheep or a flight 
of starlings. So well was this game played 
with me, that only years afterwards and with a 
pang of disillusionment did it occur to me that 
my mother’s object in playing it had been to 
keep me quiet and not to amuse herself. 

Meals are, of course, the great entertainment 
and resource, and the longer they are spun out 
the better, leaving the interval between lunch 
and tea as short as possible. The picnic basket 
must be well thought out, and knives and forks 
left behind, the treat of eating in one’s fingers 
being three parts of the fun. I recommend a 
[ 190 ] 


A DAY IN THE TRAIN 

cold chicken cut up, for who has forgotten the 
bliss of gnawing a drumstick ? Hard-boiled 
eggs are un-messy and generally very popular; 
bananas easy to eat with decorum, and ginger¬ 
bread nuts are an excellent occupation, espe¬ 
cially when they have reached the soft plasticine¬ 
like stage. However complete your provisions, 
don’t omit to buy penny buns, no journey is 
complete without them; and as well as the fun 
of eating them, you will also have their paper 
bags to burst. 

If money were no object and the luxury of 
sleepers could be afforded, it might be found 
wisest and less disturbing to routine to travel 
by night. Most nurses consider small babies 
less upset this way than by a long day in the 
train, as in the dark they will probably sleep 
from door to door. 

To older children a night journey is, of 
course, an adventure of unsurpassable glamour. 
They will be all right in an ordinary third-class 
carriage, as they can be spread out along the 
seats, but it is very tiring for their mother or 
nurse to have to spend the whole night in the 
perpendicular. 

However, if possible, every child should be 
[ 191 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 


allowed to experience the romance of at least 
one night-journey before he emerges from the 
most susceptible age. How wonderful it was 
to go rattling along all night on the threshold 
of sleep! It is an excitement not to be missed, 
one of the very best opportunities for the exer¬ 
cise of that invaluable faculty for transmuting 
the unusual into the glorious, which is one of 
the great blessings of childhood. 


[ 192 ] 


XIX 


SHOPPING 

“It is easy to take a child to a shop , but hard to get 
him away.” —Old Proverb. 

I am sure that for a great number of chil¬ 
dren, many of their fastest heart-beatings must 
be associated with the inside and the outside 
of shops. 

The hungry boy flattening his nose against 
the plate-glass window of a pork-pie merchant, 
and the one, rich in all save pocket-money, 
who has set his heart on some unobtainable 
toy, each of these knows the very excess of 
longing. 

If only going out shopping could reassert 
the spell it once exercised over me, how pleasant 
instead of painful would be the prospect of my 
Monday-morning duties. 

Certainly to me as a small child every sort of 
shop was stocked with an extraordinary ro¬ 
mance. I don't know which held the most 
charm, the small or the immense, the empty 
[ 193 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

or the thronged. There was the homely little 
village one, to which you hurried after lessons, 
your hoarded pennies clutched in your hand. 
As you opened the door a bell loudly clanged 
and summoned the trading housewife, inter¬ 
rupted from her cooking, to attend to you and 
you alone. 

This was gratifying to the Londoner accus¬ 
tomed to waiting in a queue for attention, and 
so was her volubility whilst with a piece of 
wood she fished for bulls’ eyes in a deep bottle 
and then weighed them on a huge pair of 
kitchen scales, before wrapping them up in a 
wisp of the advertisement sheet of a newspaper, 
printed letters from which you afterwards found 
adhering to the sticky sweets. 

This primitive establishment was very enjoy¬ 
able, but then how thrilling were also the first 
visits to one of the vast glittering emporiums 
—“calico-hells,” as the disillusioned call them 
—in which I used to feel quite as excited and 
distracted as a terrier in a rabbit warren. 
There every commodity which could possibly 
be required from cradle to coffin was dazzlingly 
displayed, and with what pleasurable awe did 
I gape at the gorgeous goods, at the liveried 
[ 194 ] 


SHOPPING 


attendants who wafted me up in lifts, and at 
the immaculate wax figures clad in such won¬ 
derful clothes. 

At last the right department was reached, 
and in a dazed condition one found oneself 
perched up on a very high chair in front of a 
man who wore a pencil in his ear and appeared 
to be resting his whole weight on the two large 
thumbs spread out on the counter. 

The serried rows of white cardboard boxes 
were then disarranged entirely on your account 
and reluctant gloves forced on to your fingers— 
fingers which tried so hard to stand firm, but 
continually gave way at the knuckles. When, 
after many struggles, you were “suited,” how 
admirable was the rapidity with which the 
owner of the thumbs and the pencil first made 
such very impressive cabalistic signs on his 
transfer paper and then packed your purchase. 

These were the occasions on which you were 
being taken out shopping without any com¬ 
mercial schemes of your own, and were just 
expected to be as passive as a parcel. 

Certain goods had to be chosen for you, and 
your part was only to do that which you were 
told, to present various parts of your person 
[ 195 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 


for trying on, and to refrain from touching any 
of the wares. 

In a large shop, opportunities for really 
sensational disobedience abound, and a child’s 
potentialities for disturbance are never greater. 
Consider how easy it is for him with one single 
shove to upset a hundred safety pins or a 
thousand peppermint creams! 

Temptations beset one sorely, and there was 
also always the fear of the awful fate of getting 
lost in one of these huge labyrinths. This 
once happened to me when I was four years old, 
and for five minutes I rushed about in absolute 
terror of being sold and packed. 

But the really exciting occasions were those 
on which you had come out to make your own 
purchases and had to go through all the agonies 
of the exercise of choice, as to how best to lay 
out your small stock of money. How vividly 
I remember that flushing sense of a sudden 
accession of wealth which came over me when, 
in order to buy something for a penny, I broke 
into my new shilling, wrapped up in tissue 
paper, and was handed back a silver sixpence 
and five huge coppers. 

One of the things concerning children of 
[ 196 ] 


SHOPPING 


which you cannot too often remind yourself is 
the tremendous momentousness of the decisions 
they have to make during these shopping ex¬ 
peditions, especially when it is the choosing of 
Christmas presents which is occupying their 
attention. 

Then the critical situation is often further 
complicated by the presence of some one for 
whom it is essential that they should procure a 
surprise present; this with the scarcity of funds 
and the lack of any comfortable conviction, 
combine to give them very flushed faces and 
glittering eyes. It is on these occasions sadly 
easy to hurt their feelings by laughing at their 
hesitating between alternatives of trash, or by 
trying impatiently to hurry them into a deci¬ 
sion—to you so very unimportant. 

Whenever the boredom of having to wait 
standing on weary feet in a crowded shop be¬ 
comes too trying, I remind myself of how, at 
their age, I used to lie awake at night wondering 
which of two Christmas cards it would be best 
to send to my aged uncle. Would he prefer 
the one displaying a robin redbreast carrying a 
spray of mistletoe in his beak, or that equally 
lovely one decorated with a silver horseshoe 
[ 197 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

threaded with blue ribbon ? Advice, if I 
sought it, was sure to be conflicting, and a 
verdict from tossing up failed to give me any 
real conviction. It is really wonderful how 
sympathetic on the whole attendants are to 
child-customers; even in all the fever and fret 
of Christmas week their patience seems very 
seldom to give out. I am quite touched when 
I remember with what apparent concentra¬ 
tion—when it had come to my last ninepence— 
they would assist me to decide between the 
conflicting appeals of a paper-knife or a paper¬ 
weight—a pen-holder or a pen-wiper. 

In one way and another I don't think there 
was any arena in which grown-up people 
astonished me more than they did in shops. 
At the age when the one point in growing up 
seemed to lie in the fact that one would acquire 
full liberty in matters of eating and drinking— 
even be able to consume as many ices or 
meringues as one chose at a sitting—how 
astonishing it was to see the absurd way in 
which these privileged beings wasted their 
golden opportunities. One knew they had 
money, could one not see the reassuring bulges 
in their purse? Yet quite often, without so 
[ 198 ] 


SHOPPING 


much as looking either to the right or to the 
left, they would scurry through the confection¬ 
ery straight on to the drapery department. 
How inexplicably perverse it seemed that they 
should spend their lovely half-crowns on calico 
instead of on chocolate, and their time in the 
turnery instead of in the toy department. 

Quite another kind of shopping, but one 
which also held great charm, was when you 
were staying at the seaside and were allowed 
to go out and assist with the day’s marketing, 
bringing the meat for your luncheon home— 
meat as surprisingly red as the shrimps were 
surprisingly un-red. A grocer’s shop was won¬ 
derfully attractive too, and one of my favourite 
privileges was to be permitted to pick out my 
own half a pound of mixed biscuits. 

Having tea in a shop is also a great treat to 
children. I loved the little marble-topped 
tables and the sight of eclairs in glass cases; 
the only drawback being the final embarrass¬ 
ing catechism as to the number of cakes I had 
consumed. 

But most exciting of all shopping dramas, 
was when a pirate-ship, a fire-engine or whatever 
then unobtainable treasure it was, the sight 
[ 199 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 


of which had excited your longing, had been 
patiently saved up for halfpenny by halfpenny, 
and the day at last arrived on which, the 
necessary sum amassed, purse in hand in 
breathless anxiety you reached the shop, found 
it still there (your mother, to avoid appalling 
disappointment, having secretly ordered it 
already) and in triumph carried your glorious 
possession home. 

No surprise toy was ever so much enjoyed 
and gloated over as the long awaited one. 

Immediately to buy a child whatever takes 
his fancy is to do him out of such an accumu¬ 
lation of enjoyment as can only accompany 
something long desired, the final acquisition of 
which has been so wonderfully sweetened by 
almost despairing suspense. 


[ 200 } 


XX 

DRESSING-UP 


“He struck his milk-white hand against a nail 
Sees his own hlood and feels his courage fail. 

Ah , where is now that boasted valour flown? 
Achilles weeps , great Hector hangs his head! 

And the Black Prince goes whimpering to bed.” 

Mary Lamb. 

Next to those so oft-repeated words, “Please 
tell me a story,” and “I don’t want to go to 
bed,” “May I dress-up?” is probably the 
phrase most frequently on children’s lips. 

Certainly the taste for fancy dress—one of 
the earliest nursery developments—is shared 
by all children, and, as a matter of fact, very 
few of their parents or grandparents ever com¬ 
pletely outgrow it. The sense of the romance 
and humour of personal disguise, the attempt 
by the alteration of appearance to escape from 
the confines of your own individuality, seems 
common to all humanity. 

In spite of the aspersions cast on their 
efficacy, fine feathers have at least the power 
to make birds feel fine; and though children 
[ 201 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

greatly enjoy making an impression on other 
people, they would still dress-up, even were 
there no hope of an audience. 

Neither would they be doing it merely for 
the fun and satisfaction of seeing themselves 
in the glass. For theirs is a vanity more subtle 
than that of Narcissus, their subconscious mo¬ 
tive being to take themselves in far more than 
any one else, and it is for their own benefit that 
they appropriate the psychological attributes 
of the characters they impersonate. 

Notice how often they say, “I want to be so 
and so,” not, “I want to be like so and so.” 

The actors are their own audience, the illu¬ 
sion is well-nigh complete, and they take all the 
credit for the triumphs of the gallery figures 
whose appearances and mannerisms they ape. 

That is why they are for ever strutting about 
as warriors and brigands, their histrionic hearts 
swelling with a sense of their own derring do. 

“And with new joy and pride, the little actor cons 
another part.” 

Theirs is the enviable capacity, so thoroughly 
to impose on themselves, that they are all aglow 
with a glory delightfully unearned. 

[202 ] 


DRESSING UP 


Perch a paper crown on the head of the “six 
years’ darling of a pigmy size,” and behold him 
feeling every inch a king. 

And the chubby child of three years old, 
whom one knows to be adorably timid—terri¬ 
fied even by tea-party crackers—once dressed 
up as a pirate, will be shamelessly full of bluster, 
assuming a swaggering gait and a bass voice. 
In spite of his acknowledged fear of the tiny 
explosion of crackers, thanks to his belt and 
slouch hat, he now walks clad in all the dignity 
of one quite at home amid the roar of can¬ 
non. 

Intoxicated with triumph and self-admira¬ 
tion, he has completely thrown himself into his 
beau role> and is without any disturbing self- 
consciousness as to the incongruity so delightful 
to onlookers. Is there anything more deli¬ 
ciously comic than these diminutive dramatists ? 
To hear the crystal tinklings of a treble voice 
trying to be terrible, to see the assumed ferocity 
on a baby-face, the fierce frown on his bulging 
brow, the glare of eyes hopelessly round, and 
the crinkling of his tiny nose as he clenches a 
dimpled fist and stamps with a foot light as a 

leaf! I 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

There could be no more enchanting instance 
of 

cc Thou whose exterior semblance doth belie 
Thy soul’s immensity.” 

Though children, for the most part, dress-up 
far more with the wish to impress than to 
amuse—their aspiration being towards the 
glamorous rather than towards the comic, yet 
they will be very quick to appreciate the joke 
of other people’s fancy dress. 

That nucleus of humour, the sense of the 
incongruous (in others), seems to exist extra¬ 
ordinarily early. Very young babies will rock 
with amusement at the time-honoured joke of 
Mother in Daddy’s hat; Nannie has only to 
place a napkin on her head to set the bells of 
laughter pealing; and even the cat and the 
rocking-horse will be continually having cos¬ 
tumes tried on. 

No doubt so immemorial an instinct would 
assert itself in every family without any in¬ 
centive from the suggestions of presiding 
“grown-ups,” but it is just as well to encourage 
its development and to contribute towards the 
“properties” required. On no account should 
§0 enjoyable a tendency ever be snubbed. 

[ 204 ] 


DRESSING UP 


Nothing more wounding to the feelings than 
for a fancy dress to fall flat. What a douche of 
cold water on a blaze of excitement! To come 
into the room, disguised with the aid of all the 
quill pens in the house and some lip salve, as a 
Red Indian, only to find the “grown-ups” too 
preoccupied to turn round, is indeed to taste 
the bitterness of disappointment, and to feel 
as ridiculously small as you look. For all the 
stalwart support of auto-suggestion, children 
do need an audience, and sympathetic apprecia¬ 
tion and astonishment should always be shown 
to each successive impersonation. One of the 
many reasons for preferring the kitchen to the 
drawing-room is the superior ovation there 
accorded to dressing-up. 

“I was a giant, but nobody noticed,” is 
indeed a pathetic phrase. 

Applause is one’s first duty; but the most 
practical method of aiding and abetting children 
in satisfying this elementary form of craving for 
romance, is to have a chest in which all odds 
and ends which could possibly be used for pur¬ 
poses of dressing-up are carefully collected. 

Practically anything will deserve a place; 
discarded garments, derelict curtains, wisps of 
[205 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 


material, all should meet in this heterogeneous 
assortment. Innumerable things—otherwise 
condemned as rubbish—may here resurrect 
and give the greatest delight. Thus to make 
yourself into an amateur theatrical costumier 
is really a measure of self-defence. Unless 
some provision be made, you must be prepared 
to find your bedroom constantly converted into 
a green-room. Your cupboards will be ran¬ 
sacked, your scarves used as turbans, your 
best hats as helmets, your silk stockings as 
tights. Far better formally consign your cast- 
ofF clothes to distinguished survival after death 
as fancy dress. 

Mufti will go a long way, but you can also 
let some Christmas and birthday presents take 
the form of the toy “outfits” displayed in 
shops. They are not expensive, and nothing 
gives greater pleasure than one of these, be it 
the get up of a bus-conductor, a cowboy, a 
jester, or a fireman. 

As the possibilities of a burnt cork are bound 
to be discovered sooner or later, parents had 
much better seize the credit by themselves 
initiating their children into the joys of its 
proper use. 


[206 ] 


DRESSING UP 


One of the greatest treats of childhood was 
thus making one’s face hideous by embellishing 
it with preposterous moustachios, beard and 
whiskers. 

Masks will probably have a phase of extreme 
popularity, but making your own faces by self¬ 
distortion is a far more lasting pleasure. 

There are, of course, drawbacks to the custom 
of dressing-up, children being so apt to get in¬ 
conveniently carried away by their parts at the 
most unpropitious moments. The mask, as it 
were, sticks to the face and, to the consternation 
of strangers, the actors are liable to go on be¬ 
having in character. Fierce feathers make 
fierce birds, and the boy who has been imper¬ 
sonating a pirate for the last few days may well 
assault some unfortunate child in the Park, his 
indignant protest, “But I’m not playing with 
you!” being of but little protection. 

These tendencies need supervision and tact¬ 
ful control. So potential a weapon as make- 
believe must be adroitly caught by its handle 
and turned to your own advantage. 

Encourage your child to select his parts from 
amongst the more reputable of sensational 
characters, and then insist on the obligations 
[ 207 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 


as well as the privileges incurred. If he must 
needs be a robber, let him at least favour Robin 
Hood rather than Bill Sikes; if his predilection 
is to be a warrior, then cast him for the part 
of a merciful knight. Noblesse oblige and the 
sacredness of symbols must be ceaselessly 
dinned into him, and he must realize that he 
cannot “have it both ways.” If he is allowed 
to wear that odious tin sword, then he must 
firmly refrain from crying when he is either 
hurt or in want of something, and the laws of 
chivalry must be assiduously practised, weapons 
being always confiscated from unworthy hands. 

Properly handled, dressing-up may thus 
become an invaluable incentive as well as an 
inexhaustible pastime. Even in real life, the 
extraordinary moral effect of clothes on children 
is so apparent. Was there ever a boy who was 
not inspired, and temporarily ennobled, by his 
first pair of “chowsers” 


[2081 


XXI 

A CHILDREN’S PARTY 

“A party in a parlour sat—all silent and all damned A 

Shelley. 

One of the minor disappointments quite 
common to mothers, is to find that the chil¬ 
dren whom they so delight to exhibit do not 
care for going to parties. 

It seems that many boys and girls are too old 
to enjoy these entertainments almost directly 
they cease to be too young—the right age 
apparently being passed in a twinkling. So 
soon as they grow out of being frightened, they 
become bored and would much prefer to have 
a chosen friend to play with them at home. 
“Must I go to a party this week?” was a 
question I was asked the other day. 

For me the chief glamour of that kind of 
going out to tea, which involved taking shoes 
and a hairbrush in a bag, lay in the prospect 
of the deliciously un-everyday food—the straw¬ 
berries and cream, iced coffee, and all the 
coloured cake with little silver balls. It was 
[ 209 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 


no special pleasure to be one of a large crowd 
of children, and I don’t remember particularly- 
looking forward to the possible Punch and 
Judy or the games. My expectations of en¬ 
joyment were almost entirely derived from the 
pleasures of the table, and even these were 
sadly overshadowed by the doom of having*to 
say “Good-bye” and “Thank you” to my 
hostess before I could go home. 

To the children of to-day—owing to greater 
licence, so much less rapturously greedy than 
were their mothers—even the attractions of 
good things to eat and drink must be consider¬ 
ably weakened. 

However, there are, of course, many boys 
and girls naturally endowed with the taste for 
crowds, best clothes and organized revelry. 
These delight in parties, pleasing their hostess 
by their sparkling eyes, stimulated spirits and 
happy laughter, and making up for the cata¬ 
leptic appearance of others, very likely at home 
the most brimming over with life. In any 
case this form of entertainment is likely to 
continue to flourish, for tables can be made to 
groan at a relatively trifling expense when 
children only are to be catered for. Some 
[ 210 ] 


A CHILDREN’S PARTY 

definite form of entertainment, such as a con¬ 
juror or a cinematograph, is usually provided; 
but this, though very popular, is by no means 
an indispensable expense. 

The one golden rule is that the first item on 
the programme must be tea. No entertain¬ 
ment, games or dancing should ever be at¬ 
tempted until the ice has been broken by 
feasting. And how extraordinarily thick the 
ice can be on these occasions! 

At the beginning of a party, a glance round 
the room will show you that most of the chil¬ 
dren might each be on a separate island for 
any interchange of thought or emotion that is 
taking place. Insulated in shy self-conscious¬ 
ness, how coldly they glare at one another, not 
even reaching that early phase of contempo¬ 
rary acquaintance which consists in abrupt 
interrogations: “How old are you?” “What’s 
your name ?” 

Then are not the mothers apt to be too 
exclusively riveted by their own offspring to 
contribute much to the general gaiety ? They 
seem uncomfortably preoccupied as to how 
their darlings may behave in the fierce light 
that beats upon a party, and, perhaps a little 
[ 211 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

conscious that the heroes of home are here but 
as pebbles on the beach, are over-inclined to 
confide, to inattentive ears, that their children 
are not looking their best to-day. 

Nurses, too, have a tendency to be more 
competitive than is compatible with their own 
comfort, and to take any praise of another’s 
charge as disparagement of their own. 

Small children at tea—their faces so comic¬ 
ally close to their plates—present an amusing 
contrast to their parents engaged in a meal. 
Blinkers would not be in their way, for they 
take no thought of their neighbours. None 
of that perfunctory making of conversation, 
but, in its place, a complete concentration on 
the business of eating—no silent business 
though, for their whole bodies seem engaged 
in the process, and there are many heaving 
sighs and breathless pants and puffs. When a 
cup has to be held in two hands, wide eyes 
floating upwards just above its brim, the gulp¬ 
ing is apt to be very loud, and, at the end of a 
long draught, the drinker has all the appear¬ 
ance of having run a race. 

Children are divided into those who eat too 
much and those who eat too little, so an of- 
[ 212 ] 


A CHILDREN’S PARTY 

ficial censor should stand behind each chair; 
amiable strangers, who will not have to reap 
their sowing, being inclined to overply them, 
ransacking each table for its richest dainties. 
A pleasing sight these rapt rows of solemn 
munchers—their thoughts on the cake after 
next! 

Crackers are the traditional ornament of 
children’s teas, adding much to the general 
festiveness; but to many of the younger ones 
they are the thorns in the rose, so pathetically 
frightened are they by the midget explosions. 

I remember when the question, “Will there 
be crackers?” sprang to my lips at the first 
mention of a party. The wish was not the 
father to the thought, their trashy contents 
making no amends for the painful ordeal of 
their pulling. 

Immediately after tea is the right time for 
whatever entertainment is to take place. The 
old-fashioned conjuror, who produced white 
rabbits from a top hat and extracted miles of 
gaily-coloured ribbon from his mouth, has for 
the most part given place to one reinforced by 
the arts of ventriloquism. He is usually sup¬ 
ported by an ugly doll—the delight of some 
1213 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 


children and the dread of others—and will 
generally give some little boy the chance of 
feeling, according to his nature, either covered 
with glory or with confusion, by asking him to 
step forward and “assist” in the performance 
of some trick. 

I think the children of to-day enjoy a well- 
chosen cinema almost better than anything 
else; but the tiny ones are apt to be frightened 
or bored by any sort of entertainment, and 
they should never be forced to attend. In 
fact, where there is much discrepancy in ages, 
it is really far wiser to separate the babies from 
the older children. A room should be set 
aside for them and one enlightened grown-up 
person appointed to preside. There need be 
no straining after originality. Nothing more 
blissful will ever be invented than those in¬ 
spired classics, “Ring-a-Ring a Roses,” and 
“Here we go round the Mulberry Bush.” 
They have unfailing charm, and are peace¬ 
fully devoid of the competitive element found 
even in “Nuts in May” and “Oranges and 
Lemons. ” In some games the happiness of the 
few is so much built on the disappointment of 
the many. 


[ 214 ] 


A CHILDREN’S PARTY 

At the palpitating close of Musical Chairs 
there are a great many glum faces round the 
room. Yet this is too good a game to forego, 
the very oldest and biggest becoming carried 
away by its drama, and sometimes finding it 
difficult to be chivalrous to the small and frail. 

The hostess’s aim (no mean one) should be 
much laughter and no tears . If there are to be 
no bumps, no frights, no disappointments, she 
must look to it that floors are not too slippery, 
conjurors too dramatic, nor games too heart¬ 
burning. 

Once tea and the ensuing entertainment are 
over, there need not be very much organizing 
of the elder children. Tongues will now be 
loosened and the intervals between the set 
games had better be fairly long, for, in the 
blessed state of merriment, children seem to 
delight in just “swarming.” 

Music should be provided, and some will 
dance; but many, equally happy, will merely 
rush to and fro, or pirouette and slide, much to 
the disturbance of those more formally engaged. 

At the really successful children’s party, it 
should be impossible, on entering the room, to 
say exactly what was going on. Like so many 
[ 215 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 


starlings, the children’s movements should defy 
definition, and at this stage great care will have 
to be taken to see that none of the smaller ones 
are sent spinning by their exhilarated seniors. 

Nothing is more conducive to high spirits 
than those lovely coloured air balloons—we 
make a great mistake in not having them at our 
own dinner parties—and each child should be 
given a large one on a long string; but there 
must be some in reserve, for they are sadly 
ephemeral. The gas-filled ones, now available, 
are more durable, but I think they have far 
less wayward grace. 

That time-honoured treat, a bran-pie, holds 
delight and glamour for children of all ages. 
It has delicious mystery, and burrowing, with 
beating heart, for the little lurking parcels 
appeals to the latent gambling instincts. It is 
an anxious moment for parents—children being 
inclined to use both hands, and to present 
themselves uninvited for a second helping. 
There should be two pies, one filled for those 
over, the other for those under, five years old. 
It is easier to divide presents by their suit¬ 
ability to age than as to whether they are for 
boys or girls, toys being for the most part 
[ 216 ] 


A CHILDREN’S PARTY 

neuter; but for a large party the best plan is to 
have four divisions. 

Now, with the newly unpacked treasures 
tightly clutched, is the time to say “Good-bye”; 
and as the children file past their hostess she 
should be rewarded for her pains by gleams 
from happy sparkling eyes, the stony stare of 
arrival having on most faces long since dissolved 
in the glow of rapture. 


[ 217 ] 


XXII 


THE FAMILY DOCTOR 

“Doctor So-much-the-Worse , and Doctor All-the- 
Better — La Fontaine. 

Being obliged to edit your own case to the 
doctor, instead of enjoying Punch and the 
Illustrated News in his waiting-room whilst 
your mother did all the talking, ranks high 
amongst the many disadvantages of becoming 
a “grown-up.” I think it brings your regret¬ 
table independence home to you even more 
forcibly than does the necessity of paying his 
bill out of your own money. Still sadder are 
the occasions on which bedridden, but power¬ 
less to abdicate, you have to make a sore throat 
worse by yourself telling of its soreness, instead 
of, as before, lying passive and important while 
gratifying whisperings were heard on the other 
side of the screen. As for the barley-water, 
how much sweeter it tasted in the days when 
it automatically appeared at your bedside than 
it ever does now that you have to order it for 
yourself. 


[ 218 ] 


THE FAMILY DOCTOR 

And yet, in spite of the Paradise Lost of 
such irresponsibility, I remember how intensely 
the sufferings of childish illnesses were magni¬ 
fied by my dread of a visit from the doctor. In 
my infantile imagination he loomed as a kind 
of grim personification of all the horrors and 
humiliations of illness, and my agonized shyness 
at the entrance of the black-coated stranger, 
armed with his terrifying mysteries of stetho¬ 
scope and thermometer, was a cruel addition to 
such miseries as feeling sick and burning hot. 

I remember my pained bewilderment at 
receiving so unusual a command as “Put out 
your tongue. ” Then the astounding questions 
he would ask—and why, oh why, make one 
begin counting at 99—then cut one short with 
a brusque “That will do,” and plunge a spoon 
down one’s throat ? Before relieving the room 
of his presence he would scribble cabalistic 
signs on a piece of paper, so I knew who it was 
I had to thank for all the nasty tastes of the 
next few days. 

Sometimes the dreaded visitant was stern and 
awesome—reminding me of “Tall Agrippa.” 
On other occasions he appeared clothed in an 
even worse jocularity, and, rubbing his hands, 
[ 219 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

would inquire, “How are we to-day ?” Why 
we? I well remember my puzzled ponderings 
over that plural pronoun. 

Was I never ill twice in the same place, or 
did no doctor succeed in giving satisfaction to 
those in authority? 

Whatever the explanation, familiarity was 
never given a chance to breed any comfortable 
contempt, for every one of my many illnesses 
was penalized by a strange doctor. 

How different would my feelings have been 
had I known him, so to speak, off the stage; 
had he been a familiar figure of ordinary life, 
instead of an abnormal one exclusively associ¬ 
ated with feeling ill and nasty-tasting medi¬ 
cines. As it was, so much did I misunderstand 
his mission to my bedside, that I’m told that, 
when very tiny I once asked whether “ the ther¬ 
mometer man who had given me the rash” 
was coming again. 

I feel sure much unnecessary suffering would 
be saved if—after carefully choosing the doctor 
they intend to call in for illnesses—parents 
would take their children to see him when they 
are well. This may sound a counsel of extrava¬ 
gance, but, apart from any consideration of the 
[ 220 } 


THE FAMILY DOCTOR 

children’s nerves, is it not obviously of great 
value for the doctor to be acquainted with 
them in their normal condition, so that he 
may know how much colour and vivacity are 
natural to them ? 

The more understanding he has of their 
constitutions and their characters before any 
actual crisis arises, the easier it will be for him 
when the time comes to diagnose and pre¬ 
scribe. 

A small child need have no suspicion as to 
the object of the visit, he can easily be left under 
the impression that he is just going to see a 
“kind friend of Mother’s,” and on no account 
should his health or lack of it be discussed in 
his presence. If he hears any weaknesses 
spoken of with resignation, he may take a wan 
pride in his inability to “keep anything down” 
or “do with excitement,” and standing orders 
will thus be conveyed to his unconscious self. 
In any case, whenever the doctor is visiting one 
member of the family, the opportunity of letting 
the others see him outside the sick room should 
always be taken, and, if he is fortunate in his 
manner, very few encounters should enable 
him to set future patients at their ease. 

[ 221 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 


There can be nothing more conducive to a 
mother’s peace of mind than the knowledge 
that, at the end of the telephone, she has a 
doctor in whose skill she has complete con¬ 
fidence, and who, instead of being an alarming 
stranger, is an affectionate and welcome friend 
to her children. 

Yes, I’m sure the importance of getting to 
know your doctor before illness makes a visit 
imperative, cannot be too strongly urged; 
besides which—quite apart from the value in 
illness of previous acquaintance—it is essential 
that every child, however apparently healthy, 
should at a very early age, and afterwards at 
regular intervals, be thoroughly overhauled. 

I do not mean for a moment that childhood 
should by any means be regarded as an illness 
in itself, but it must never be forgotten how 
very misleading appearances may be, and the 
absence of any latent troubles—such as at first 
are only to be detected by a trained eye—should 
periodically be ascertained. 

The very fatness on which parents some¬ 
times congratulate themselves may well be 
concealing rickets—the symptoms of which are 
often postponed, and many other physical 
[ 222 ] 


THE FAMILY DOCTOR 

defects, such as slight curvature of the spine 
or a tendency to flat feet, become increasingly 
difficult to correct each year that treatment is 
delayed. 

When the time comes for the doctor’s first 
bedside visit, his mission should be very tact¬ 
fully explained to the children. They must 
be expecting him to make them feel well 
again, and their faith in his magician powers 
will enlist invaluable co-operation from auto¬ 
suggestion. 

His visit should seem a treat in itself—a sort 
of consolation prize for illness rather than an 
additional penalty. 

In spite of the white grapes, the barley- 
water and all the extra “spoiling” for the 
invalid, I vaguely took his embarrassing pres¬ 
ence to be a kind of punishment, and so an 
obscure sense of guilt, or at any rate of dis¬ 
grace, was joined to my bodily sufferings. 

My misunderstanding as to the nature of his 
office even had practical results. For example, 
I took his interrogative taps to be testing my 
courage instead of my organs, and, being then 
somewhat of a stoic, always felt in honour 
bound to answer the inquiry, “Does that 
[223 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

hurt?” with as bright a “No, thank you,” as 
could be summoned from a bronchial chest. 

It seemed the one and only way of scoring a 
point, and doubtless I thus suppressed much 
valuable evidence in the way of pain. 

The patient must be the principal witness in 
his own case, and the skill of a father confessor 
is often required to elicit a full statement of 
physical sensations from children, who are 
nearly all inclined to be extremely reserved in 
these matters. 

So—though too professional a bedside man¬ 
ner may be worse than brutality—conciliating 
tact is of enormous importance in the children’s 
doctor. He must contrive to coax all their 
symptoms from them without alarming them 
as to their importance, and unfailing gentleness 
in negotiation is most necessary. 

How often one has seen those alarming prop¬ 
erties, the thermometer and the stethoscope, 
converted, by their owner’s skilful editing, into 
the most enthralling and consoling toys, whereas 
other doctors—clumsy or lazy over the pre¬ 
liminary investigations—may start small chil¬ 
dren crying so uncontrollably, as to make it 
impossible to sound their lungs properly, 
[ 224 ] 


THE FAMILY DOCTOR 

whilst their temperatures are sent up by the 
agitation. In the case of a small baby, by 
taking sufficient time and trouble a thorough 
examination can be made without even rousing 
it from sleep. 

Nurses, owing to painful recollections of 
children disturbed, frightened and upset on 
previous visits, are sometimes over-reluctant 
to send for the doctor. 

Indeed, another very important reason for 
choosing a man with qualities of charm, tact 
and sympathy as your family doctor, is that he 
may invite the confidence of the nurse in charge 
as well as of the children. She is an indispens¬ 
able ally and must be propitiated, for if, as I 
have known it to be, her back be put up by 
an unfortunate manner, her charges may indi¬ 
rectly suffer. 

After deciding on a doctor who inspires her 
with confidence, the mother’s business is to see 
that he is given a proper run for her money. 
If the nurse takes a real dislike to him, one of 
the two must be changed. To have a doctor’s 
orders neglected, or carried out by some one 
who mistrusts them, is unfair all round. 

It is, of course, impossible to generalize, but, 
[ 225 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 


as a rule, I would rather have the doctor with 
long practical experience of children, even at 
the cost of his not being quite so much up to 
date as an alternative younger man. 

Provided (this is, of course, essential) you 
have a man whom you can implicitly rely on 
to call in another opinion directly circumstance 
indicate the advisability of such a step, I would, 
for the ordinary ups and downs of children's 
health, sooner have a first-class general practi¬ 
tioner, with a liking for children, than a real 
child-specialist. To begin with, one does not 
wish to pay three guineas for each bilious attack, 
and so long as you can really trust him, if in 
doubt, to ask for another opinion, your own 
doctor will often prove the best for cases of 
humdrum illness. 

Naturally a child's doctor must be a good 
psychologist. The minds and bodies of chil¬ 
dren react in bewildering vicious circles, and 
their dispositions and mentalities must always 
be taken into consideration. But, in these 
groping days of psychoanalysis, I wonder 
whether we may not be in real danger of erring 
on the new side and neglecting the purely 
physical ? 


[226 ] 


THE FAMILY DOCTOR 

Of two evils I would rather see my child in 
the hands of the most old-fashioned “Dr. 
Dose” than in those of one who, in his intelli¬ 
gent interest in temperament, might omit to 
examine a tell-tale throat. 

Such commonplaces as adenoids must not 
be overlooked in the fascinating search for 
complexes, and no doctor should ever for a 
moment cease to be a materialist because he 
has become a psychologist. 

If you find a man who combines theory, 
practice, kindness and tact, then you need not 
be afraid of your children concealing aches 
and pains through their dread of his being 
sent for; and “playing at doctor” will prob¬ 
ably very soon become one of the favourite 
pastimes in “Mother's day nursery.” 


[ 227 ] 


XXIII 


GOOD-BYES 

In every parting there is an image of death.” — 
George Eliot. 

In spite of all that may be said concerning 
the happiness of what is called the “golden 
time” of life, and intense as the raptures of 
childhood doubtless are, it must be conceded 
that many of the sorrows are correspondingly 
sharp; and certainly the sufferings some chil¬ 
dren experience over parting from those they 
love, will scarcely be equalled in poignancy by 
any of the leave-takings of maturity. 

Grown-up people have so many distractions 
that circumstances seldom permit of their really 
attending to their own emotions, let alone of 
their concentrating on any one particular grief. 
Besides, to them time gallops, whereas to chil¬ 
dren, in comparison, it almost stands still. 

To us the prospect of a month's separation 
seems only a very short interruption, but to a 
child the present, if painful, appears so hope¬ 
lessly permanent that no ray of light is per- 
[ 228 ] 


GOOD-BYES 


ceptible through his dark tunnel of immediate 
misery. 

When I was a child the proffered consolation 
of such a phrase as “It’s only for a few weeks” 
was utterly unavailing; absence was a positive 
thing and the sense of abandonment a pain. 
The imminent departure of your mother or 
your brother or of any one very much loved, 
seemed to threaten total eclipse, and the wrench 
of the actual parting was dreaded and drama¬ 
tized out of all proportion. 

At that time, saying good-bye to people at 
the station was to me a terrible ordeal—nothing 
short of a surgical operation to the affections. 
I would never have admitted it, but in reality 
I would greatly have preferred to be left at 
home, where I could have locked myself up 
in the bathroom and wept myself into stupe¬ 
faction instead of having to parade the platform 
in the pitiless glare of publicity, that awful 
burning lump in my throat, and desperately 
trying to force back the welling tears. 

Worst of all platform-partings was the recur¬ 
ring anguish of seeing my brothers off when 
they returned to school, leaving me to loneli¬ 
ness and lessons. The shadow of impending 
[ 229 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 


departure hung over the last week of the 
hastening holidays, and when it came to the 
final day my sense of bereavement was com¬ 
plicated by the fear of disgracing myself and 
them at the station. 

Once in the railway carriage and under the 
scrutiny of schoolfellows, whatever emotions 
they themselves might be feeling were con¬ 
cealed behind a convenient screen of Tit-Bits> 
and too well I knew that the possession of a 
“blubbering” sister might be tease-inspiring. 
At one time I had a hope that tears were limited 
in quantity, and so used to try and exhaust 
my reservoir of them by copiously turning on 
the waterworks in bed the night before until 
my handkerchiefs were drenched and my face 
disfigured. But I soon learnt that the supply 
depended on the demand, and that there could 
be no worse preparation for to-morrow’s ordeal. 
So there was nothing for it but to pray for self- 
control, and, if all else failed, to turn my back 
on the relentless train and appear unnaturally 
absorbed in the automatic machines. These 
could scarcely be seen through a blinding veil 
of tears, and I remember being given a penny, 
and in my confusion pulling out a packet of 
[ 230 ] 


GOOD-BYES 


cigarettes instead of a comforting slab of 
cocoanut cream. 

I think grown-up people are inclined to forget 
the extent to which these dramas of departure 
are dramatized to the diminutive. It is, indeed, 
difficult to remember to make sufficient allow¬ 
ance for the relativity of time, and to realize 
that to a child a separation of a mere week may 
appear an almost unendurable prospect. 

Some philosophical children are, of course, 
comparatively impervious; others so easily 
distractable that they can be consoled by a 
feast of strawberries and cream or by the 
anticipation of writing up “ welcome ” and 
waving flags when their mother comes home 
again; but I myself cannot remember being 
able to derive anything but the coldest comfort 
from any effort to look forward. 

I don’t know whether I was in this respect 
an exceptionally morbid child, but there is no 
doubt that for me any painful parting was 
always accompanied by a feeling of vague 
apprehension. Dim forebodings mingled with 
my sense of immediate bereavement, so that it 
was not so much the fact that to-day and to¬ 
morrow were emptied and certain rooms ren- 
[ 231 } 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

dcred desolate which made me suffer, but that 
apart from this there seemed a sort of menace 
in the mere fact of absence. 

What I obscurely felt—and I’m sure many 
children share the feeling—was that troubled 
presentiment which is suggested by separation, 
the presentiment so supremely expressed in 
Juliet’s words of parting: 

“O God! I have an ill-divining soul; 

Methinks, I see thee, now thou art so low. 

As one dead in the bottom of a tomb: 

Either my eyesight fails, or thou look’st pale.” 

The promise of a speedy return reassured me 
as little as it does a dog who trails his drooping 
tail past the hated trunks, so plainly telling of 
his coming abandonment. 

Fortunately the sorrows of childhood are for 
the most part as transient as they are acute. 
Certainly mine were seldom of long duration. 
Two or three days would suffice to soothe the 
pain of absence and to allay the foolish fears 
it had aroused. 

But awaking, the first morning after your 
mother had gone away, to the feeling of loss 
and loneliness was very hard to bear. Whilst 
you were still on the threshold of sleep a vague 
[ 232 ] 


GOOD-BYES 


uneasy questioning sense disquieted you. 
What was the matter ? What had happened ? 
And then suddenly, out of gathering con¬ 
sciousness, full realization leapt violently upon 
you and you were enfolded in dull desolation—- 
your heart aching until the ache reached right 
up to your head. 

I remember how greatly in those days my 
feelings used to be lacerated by that common 
type of story-book in which during the first- 
chapter the little hero's and heroine's father 
and mother depart for India for a period of 
three years, leaving them to the cold care of 
an iron-grey uncle. 

How often grown-up people mentally con¬ 
gratulate children on their inability to look 
ahead, forgetting that while this short view 
renders them both impervious to worry as to 
their future and wholeheartedly responsive to 
temporary treats, it at the same time makes 
them hopelessly susceptible to passing pains 
and sorrows. 

We, who have learned to look beyond to-day, 
thereby acquire a certain immunity. Even in 
the blackest night we can believe in the dawn, 
just as in the brightest dawn we are unable to 
[ 233 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 


forget the coming night. But a child is com¬ 
pletely the prey of the present. During the 
winter he is unconscious of the spring, during 
the spring he is unconscious of the winter. In 
the grip of his first toothache he has no hope 
of its cessation, for his memory holds no pledge 
of recovery, and with his first heartaches, it is 
exactly the same. His sufferings are therefore 
exaggerated in precisely the same manner as are 
his enjoyments. His small cup of woe is as 
easily filled as his small cup of bliss. 

We, to whom the present is no longer so 
autocratic, and who sometimes score and some¬ 
times lose by having learnt its insufficiency, 
must be as tolerant of the drawbacks due to our 
children’s subserviency to it as we are delighted 
with the advantages. 


[ 234 ] 


XXIV 


GRANDPARENTS 

“But when I see thee at thy father s side. 

Old times unqueen thee.” 

Hartley Coleridge. 

“Fancy poor Bobby hasn’t got either a 
rocking-horse or a grandfather!” Thus I 
heard a small boy exclaim in a tone of the 
deepest sympathy. 

His compassion was well-placed. Certainly 
grandparents are, as a rule, very agreeable 
possessions for children, being inclined to be 
quite as exaggeratedly appreciative of them as 
their father and mother, but much less incon¬ 
veniently concerned with character-training. 

Pleasantly unpreoccupied by anxiety as to 
the after effects of indulgence, they take far 
less thought for the morrow, and are therefore 
apt to be correspondingly generous with treats 
and tenderness to-day—sometimes, indeed, per¬ 
haps thinking more of their own present than 
of the children’s future. 

[235 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

“They sow and they shall not reap.” This, 
a suitable motto, partially explains why it is 
that the “heavy father” so often makes the 
light grandfather. 

Undoubtedly many a sober citizen who had 
always brought his own children up with the 
utmost sense of responsibility, having per¬ 
petually thought of future development rather 
than of immediate fun, and never allowed ten¬ 
derness to interfere with discipline, once he is 
promoted to the rank of a grandfather, flings 
precept and restraint to the winds and, to 
the occasional demoralization of his children’s 
children, becomes an absolute mush of con¬ 
cession. Ceasing to be ulterior, he concentrates 
on the immediate, wishing his grandchildren 
to gather as many rosebuds as possible whilst 
he himself may still witness their delight. 
Thus his tendency will be to spoil in order 
that he may gain the quick return of uncritical 
childish love. 

The wish to raise a look of rapture on the 
sensitive face of a child is an impulse like that 
felt towards plucking a flower or eating a sweet, 
and its gratification is a pleasure a certain type 
of fond grandfather finds very difficult to forego, 
[236 ] 


GRANDPARENTS 

now that he feels, so to speak, out of office and, 
like a retired policeman, in a holiday mood. 
The heat and burden of the day is behind him, 
and it is not surprising that he should relax 
in the cool of the evening. 

His own children were expenses and responsi¬ 
bilities, so let those delicious playthings his 
grandchildren be treasures not subject to any 
moral taxation. 

And how tempting to encourage little feet 
to dance along the primrose path, rather than 
to tread the hard and narrow one Dointed out 
by pompous parents. 

Of course there is the reverse type—dear to 
fiction but hard to find—of the austere grand¬ 
parent who thinks children should be seen not 
heard, regards them as disturbing superfluities, 
and is for ever regretting the rods of yester¬ 
year. 

In their grandchildren these recognize symp¬ 
toms of all the qualities they most deplored in 
their own children. True, in the case of their 
sons and daughters they had just managed to 
keep these bad tendencies in check by their own 
wise control. But the badly brought up chil¬ 
dren of this generation are not subject to any 
[ 237 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

such redeeming restraint, and so their grumbling 
grandparents grimly predict their coming to 
no good. 

But, whether they are lenient or severe, 
grandparents are almost certain to mistrust 
their own children's capability for bringing up 
their offspring. One of the great difficulties 
in life is to realize that your own sons and 
daughters have emerged from the chrysalis 
phase and become responsible and independent 
human beings. To a mother—particularly to 
a very fond one—her daughter still seems like 
a dressed-up child playing at being a grown-up 
person; and to watch her pretending to be a 
real mother, is like seeing a child playing with 
dolls. All very charming and pretty so long 
as it is merely a matter of Ride-a-cock horse 
and curling their hair, but when it comes to 
questions of hygiene, fresh air, food and sleep— 
then a truce to this folly! The reins must be 
snatched by experienced hands. 

Added to which nursery methods change so 
rapidly, and it is as natural for the elderly to 
mistrust new-fangled notions as it is for the 
young to pin their faith in the newest panaceas, 
and so ensuing disagreements often lead to 
[ 238 } 


GRANDPARENTS 


what an embarrassed nurse may consider un¬ 
warrantable interference. 

But how absolutely understandable all this 
is, and how tolerant of criticism the in-between 
generation should be! Impossible for them 
to be too careful never by any show of resent¬ 
ment to do anything to impair the mutual 
benefit and delight of the other two. 

Even if there is no actual friction over the 
management of your children, you must in any 
case never expect to be given any credit for 
either their behaviour or their health. 

You may well be blamed for every cold in 
their heads and for every sign of “nerves,” 
but, however much you may consider the 
effect of everything you do and say on their 
constitutions and their characters, if the result 
is successful , you will probably only be con¬ 
gratulated on your luck, not on your good 
judgment. 

“How fortunate you are to have such 
healthy, well-behaved children,” is what will 
be said—the implication being that they are 
satisfactory in spite, and not on account, of 
what you have done. 

There is also often an amusing tendency to 
[ 239 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

undermine parental discipline by the attitude 
adopted by the grandmother towards the 
mother in the presence of her children, one by 
no means conducive to the observance of the 
fifth commandment. A sense of humour at the 
expense of their parent is rapidly developed by 
the elder generation, comic anecdotes about her 
when she was a silly little girl and expressed 
contempt for her present views uniting to push 
her off her precarious pedestal. 

But all these things are matter for laughter, 
not for frowns, and nothing is more delightful 
than two generations adoring the third. 

Their grandparents should figure as largely 
as possible in children’s lives. They are always 
an irreplaceable and often a beautiful element, 
and the world seems sadly emptied without 
their beloved figures. 

Most children remember vaguely puzzling as 
to their status. 

“Mother’s mother”—“Daddy’s daddy”— 
gave one to think when first the explanation 
was offered. 

Did Nurse have a nurse ? 

Did the Queen have a queen ? 

Now that people no longer deliberately step 
[ 240 ] 


GRANDPARENTS 

into old age, as they used to do when they 
behaved according to the number of their 
birthdays without consulting their feelings, 
just as old-fashioned households start fires 
according to the calendar instead of according 
to the thermometer; now that we remain young 
until we become decrepit, it must be even 
more puzzling for children to make out the 
position of grandparents. 

The grandfather and grandmother in their 
story-books are such venerable figures, snowy 
crowned and bespectacled old folk to be visited 
by their own fireside, and so feeble as to make 
the merest mouthful for Red Riding Hood's 
wolf. 

On the other hand, their own grandfather 
plays golf and tennis, while Grandmamma is 
to all intents and purposes a contemporary of 
Mother’s, and would as soon be seen in a 
shroud as in a shawl. 

In fact, if they are good examples of mellowed 
humanity, they should strip so-called age of 
much of its menace, presenting, as they do, such 
excellent credentials for that voyage on which 
the children themselves are just embarking. 


[241] 


XXV 


THE DOWAGER BABY 

“ Envy’s a coal come hissing hot from Hell.” 

Philip Bailey. 

In any family where the first-born has for 
three years or more remained the only child, 
the arrival of the second baby is likely to create 
a psychological situation demanding very care¬ 
ful and skilful handling. 

A monopoly expires, the curtain falls on an 
autocracy; and, precisely in those cases where 
his autocracy has been permitted to appear too 
pronounced, there, at the crisis of its abrupt 
termination, the poor dowager baby is often 
treated with an almost callous lack of considera¬ 
tion. To be the sole lessee of the parental love 
of a leisured father and mother is indeed to lie 
in a most effective incubator for latent egotism. 
Just consider the unchallenged supremacy of a 
spoilt only child. His premises are sacred to 
him—and his right there is none to dispute. 
“Nannie,” that indefatigable slave of the lamp, 
[242 ] 


THE DOWAGER BABY 


is apparently without any other claims on her 
time and affection. “Mother” and “Father,” 
whenever they come upstairs or he patronizes 
their precincts, appear beings dedicated to his 
entertainment. The cook tiptoes into the room 
to simper at him lying in state in his cot, and 
there seems, indeed, a general conspiracy to give 
him a misleading impression as to life and his 
own importance. The centre of that entire 
universe of which he can form any conception— 
the position of the sun in the solar system could 
scarcely seem more undisputed. 

So, unless the situation be carefully edited, 
what wonder if to the poor little cock of the 
roost of yesterday, his whole world seems 
shattered and his trust betrayed now that, 
without any warning or by your leave, he finds 
his premises invaded, his subjects preoccupied, 
his very actions cribbed, cabin'd and confined ? 

Instead of his every word being acclaimed as 
a symptom of remarkable intelligence and all 
noisiness encouraged as proof of vitality, he is 
now continually told to be quiet, lest he “wake 
baby.” During several hours of his emptied 
day he must not even run about on his own 
floor, the gramophone and all noisy toys are 
[243 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 


stowed away out of reach. Mother cannot play 
with him, and Nurse is too busy to attend to 
him. In the general commotion questions re¬ 
main unanswered, oranges unpeeled and musical 
boxes unwound. Ev en those so solemn rites 
— his hair-brushing and his bath — may be 
left to the clumsy hands of an uncomfortable 
new creature called a nurserymaid. The whole 
order of things has changed, and custom is 
smashed; he is jostled about or kept waiting, 
and all this confusion, in the midst of which 
he feels hurt and bewildered, can only be asso¬ 
ciated with an unexplained flannel bundle 
“mewling and puking” in his nurse’s arms. 

No soothing ceremony attends this sudden 
deposition. For the poor baby dowager there 
is no dignified retreat to a dower-house, but in 
his dwindled dignity he can only stay and sulk 
amidst spoiled surroundings. 

A blessing is thus allowed to appear in the 
guise of a calamity. For, if he is really allowed 
to feel neglected and set aside, what wonder if 
that first touching complete assurance, which is 
such a lovely flourish set on a happy confident 
child, is swiftly undermined and disappears in 
perplexity. 


[244] 


THE DOWAGER BABY 


The hitherto solid ground fails beneath his 
feet, and he floats in a sea of doubt. 

When the arrival of a new baby is thus 
allowed to be the occasion of the iron first 
entering into a child’s soul through the un¬ 
accustomed sense of loneliness, not only is a 
golden opportunity for instilling the most 
enriching kind of love missed, but risk is run of 
sowing “complexes” in the fertile soil of hurt 
feelings, thereby busily cutting out future work 
for the psychoanalyst. 

The immediate suffering, too common on 
these occasions and possibly resulting in per¬ 
manent mischief, is surely always almost en¬ 
tirely due to mismanagement. 

A flicker of jealousy is natural enough to the 
child who henceforth must share with another 
the same love and the same rooms, and this 
flicker can easily be allowed to flare into flame, 
but I’m sure there is no situation more sus¬ 
ceptible to skilful editing than the close of an 
only child reign. It lies in the hands of the 
presiding “grown-ups” of his little world to 
turn on the current of love or of hate, and 
theirs is a responsibility which should be 
acutely realized. 


[245 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

By taking a little trouble, the tactful and 
imaginative can in most cases so easily forestall 
jealousy./ Instead of which how often is it 
actually suggested by remarks of such criminal 
calibre as “Now your nose is out of joint.” 
“Who has got to take a back seat now?” 
Could anything be more directly encouraging 
to the green-eyed monster ? 

It seems obvious that no hint as to the possi¬ 
bility of such a thing as jealousy should ever 
be dropped in the presence of the dowager 
baby, instead of which the painful emotion is 
busily cultivated by continual comments, nurses 
and mothers sometimes even boasting of the 
pangs of jealousy suffered on their account. 
“He jvon’t let me touch baby!” 

The seed of that calamity, a lasting dislike 
between brothers, might well be sown by one 
injudicious phrase. But, on the other hand, 
where the situation has been well handled from 
the outset I have never seen any serious trouble. 
So much depends on the first introduction. 
“Here is a baby-brother for you ” is the note 
to strike, and any amount of variations can be 
played on the same theme. 

With the help of a little skilful propaganda, 
[246 ] 


THE DOWAGER BABY 

the newcomer will be welcomed as a wonderful 
asset instead of resented as a tiresome dis¬ 
turbance; and, not only will a baby be appre¬ 
ciated as a super-toy beyond the wildest dreams 
of Christmas Eve, but those luxuries—the 
senses of pride, obligation and guardianship, 
will all be excited to the rapid promotion of 
love. 

I have seen many children of four most 
pleasurably puffed-up with tender pride in the 
little brother or sister they have been ‘‘given 
to take care of.” And on what an admirable 
training-ground for gentleness, patience and 
forbearance are they thus placed. There could 
be no better way of learning that payment for 
privilege must not be grudged, and that love 
involves service and sacrifice. 

“Now that you are so lucky as to have a 
brother, you must help Nannie to look after it 
for you by being good. ” A word or two of 
this kind will compensate even for the inconve¬ 
nience of having to forego a noisy romp, or for 
finding Nurse too busy to read aloud. 

Pride—and pride of a wholesome nature— 
will sweeten sacrifice provided the child is 
occasionally allowed to “help,” however great 
[ 247 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

the hindrance of his help may be, and at the 
compliment, “What should we do without 
you?” his cup will overflow. 

No fear of thus cultivating egotism, a plant 
which does not grow beside the sense of obli¬ 
gation, and one that is far more effectually 
watered by mortification than by gratification. 

One has heard hair-raising stories of children 
deliberately trying to injure the defenceless 
baby. If true, I’m sure such attempts can 
only have resulted from the mischievous mis¬ 
management of feelings. The little brother or 
sister must have been introduced as a rival 
instead of as a possession, and his presence 
allowed to seem an annoyance instead of an 
amusement. 

From little girls it should be especially easy 
to secure the most appreciative welcome for a 
long-clothes baby, who, in addition to many 
superior claims, has, at any rate, that of being 
a superlative doll. Boys, who have hitherto 
always enjoyed quite unchecked romping and 
been allowed to be rough with their toys, may 
well be somewhat dangerous, however well 
disposed. But supervision can easily obviate 
risk, and to be brought up in the hurly-burly 
[ 248 ] 


THE DOWAGER BABY 

of an elder brother is admirably hardening to 
the nerves. And later on how enjoyable is the 
hero-worship inspired by the big boy who has 
reached that delicious phase in which he is 
obsessed by the desire to be manly, wears 
trousers and cropped hair, and yet sees nothing 
in the least incongruous in taking three woolly 
animals to bed with him every night. 

With what admiration the small one will 
applaud the deeds of derring do performed by 
the boy he thinks so large, in wide-eyed wonder 
watching his feats of climbing and jumping, and 
perpetually parodying them by his pathetic 
attempts of follow-my-leader—a game which 
unconsciously he will be playing from break¬ 
fast to bedtime. The enjoyment and profit 
is mutual, for the big brother will enjoy so 
enthusiastic a gallery; and even though it 
encourage showing off, the effect should be 
beneficial. Noblesse oblige , and so condescen¬ 
sion will usually be accompanied by the fast- 
developing germ of consideration. The Spartan 
satisfaction found in pain well-borne, a very 
considerable one to most boys, will be greatly 
enhanced by the adoring admiration of a small 
spectator, and to have a thorn or a first tooth 
[ 249 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

extracted without flinching will be much more 
worth while if he is at the same time setting a 
good example to “little brother.” 

No doubt he will be patronizing, but what 
matter provided he be at the same time pro¬ 
tective ? The appeal of smallness to a child's 
imagination may be as strong as that of bigness, 
and if each appreciate the size of the other, to 
whom he is the foil, how mutually becoming 
are the pair of blossoming brothers! 


[250] 


XXVI 


“GETTING BIG” 

“We want , we two—impossible things — 

To see the flighty yet clip the wings; 

To keep the bud, yet find the flower; 

Live on, yet pause, upon the hour.” 

Mathew Browne. 

Childhood is a succession of closing chap¬ 
ters and finishing phases; and always to en¬ 
courage her son’s advance by welcoming his— 
to her often so painful—progress, is by no 
means the easiest part of a mother’s task. 

How sadly soon the shoes (bought a size too 
big) and the perambulator (seemingly large as 
a landau when first it blocked the hall) are 
hopelessly outgrown! 

But these facts, however inconvenient, ad¬ 
mit of no doubt, and must be accepted. 

It is to the more subtle forms of growth that 
an erring mother might, in reluctance to accept 
the inevitable bereavements of alteration, en¬ 
deavour to close her eyes. 

And yet, from the wish to prolong a tempo¬ 
rary treat, to try insidiously to imprison a 
[ 251 } 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

child’s behaviour and personality in a passing 
phase, however pleasing, may be just as injuri¬ 
ous as to persevere in forcing his feet into out¬ 
grown shoes. 

Impossible not to acknowledge that he is 
now too big to wear his last year’s clothes, 
however pretty; but not so easy to realize that 
the tender treatment of last year—however 
tempting its continuation—is every bit as 
much outgrown. 

How sadly strewn with jettisoned charms and 
relinquished delights is the correct course of a 
child! Glittering curls must be cut, enchant¬ 
ing absurdities of tripping speech and gait 
suffer sad reform—his whole delicious baby 
behaviour become gradually abandoned. 

Development is for ever dealing death in 
life to a thousand transitory beauties and de¬ 
lights. Blow after blow is struck at baby¬ 
hood, and the mourning mother must encour¬ 
age the battle, applauding the destruction of 
so perfect and precious a plaything. 

The child of yesterday for ever disappears 
into the changeling of to-morrow. The tem¬ 
porary toy turns into the permanent puzzle, and 
in her child’s kaleidoscopic personality the 
[ 252 ] 


GETTING BIG 


mother can scarcely distinguish the string con¬ 
necting all the bewilderingly different beads. 

To the right kind of child his continual pro¬ 
motion will be the main preoccupation. Even 
at the age when clothes are still neuter, that 
diminutive iconoclast a healthy boy will, in his 
fever to be manly, struggle to dispense with all 
frills and furbelows. He will soon become 
impatient of help and protection, and be for 
ever threatening by talk of “When I’m big.” 
Shaking at the bars of his prison of dependence, 
he will always want to “feed self,” “walk 
self,” “dress self,” and be for ever striding 
out of safety and sameness towards risks and 
responsibilities. 

In the case of an eldest child, his mother, 
rich in the possession of others, will probably 
be willing enough to aid and abet his escape 
from the nursery. She will take pride instead 
of pain in his growing size and independence, 
and revel in the spirit of progress which makes 
him acclaim each birthday as a glorious achieve¬ 
ment. 

On his third, behold him renaming Daddy 
“Father,” and his knickers “chowsers,” and 
on his fourth clamouring to have his hair cut. 
[253 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

In his first sailor suit he exclaims, “Now Fm 
the beginning of an admiral,” and the mother 
delights in this general attitude of anticipation, 
seeing the charms of his present phase, not as 
an end in themselves, but as the first-fruits and 
intimations of her future harvests. 

Even going too far in this direction, she may 
so fix her eyes on the future, that some of the 
present passes without full appreciation, and 
her child is quickly hurried through and out 
of childhood. Needless to say ‘the evils of 
extensive cultivation may be even worse than 
those of artificially preserved childishness. 

But how different is the case of an only or 
even of a youngest child. Then it is indeed 
hard duly to encourage all the steps, each of 
which inexorably leads away from you. Yet 
how diligently must you equip him for his 
dreaded departure, and be for ever, as it were, 
sharpening weapons to be used against your¬ 
self. 

A child of two or three can be so enthralling, 
entertaining and consoling a “piece of work,” 
that you long to be able to crystallize his tran¬ 
sitory charm, your inclination being to treat 
him as a cut flower rather than as a growing tree. 

[ 254 ] 


‘‘GETTING BIG” 

In the desire to make him linger in so 
poignantly lovable a state, instead of praising 
you would like to punish his progress. To 
leave off lisping, and to learn to walk steadily, 
seem the most undesirable accomplishments, 
and, each word, for the first time correctly 
pronounced, gives you a pang, as though a 
knell. 

Is there not the temptation to make pets of 
his very defects and to lament his overcoming 
of them ? 

Though each phase has its own charm and 
interest, how difficult not to pine for relin¬ 
quished ones! 

But, however much it steal away delight, 
you must stiffen yourself into a show of wel¬ 
come to each successive development—and try 
to shut your ears to the “never-never more” in 
all the lovely fleeting sights and sounds. . . . 

One obvious pitfall for an un-Spartan mother, 
is over-long to postpone what may be called 
the “dismantling” of a boy. In the case of 
the first so anxiously-awaited son, she is prob¬ 
ably only too eager to accentuate the difference 
between him and his elder sisters. He runs 
the risk of being “breeched” so soon as he 
[255 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 


is out of long clothes, and his hair will be 
cropped close as his father’s. 

But when there are no girls on whom to 
exercise a taste for the decorative, how difficult 
to sacrifice the picturesque to convention, to 
condemn curls and fold away gay garments! 

Many boys are such thoroughly ready-made 
miniature men—such pocket editions of their 
fathers, that no one could be tempted to try 
and trifle with their reach-me-down and mas¬ 
culine appearance. 

By the time they are two years old, you know 
just what they will look like when they go to 
their public school. Their hair cries out to 
be cut, and anything but the plainest clothes 
appear absurd. 

Others, tantalizingly romantic with their 
looks of woodland sprite or mediaeval page, it 
seems impious to have to crop and becollar. 
In conventional clothes they look like wild 
flowers wired, and to shear their shining heads 
seems vandalism. 

With some children their picturesque ap¬ 
pearance is, indeed, so much a part of their 
personality, that ruthlessly to alter it demands 
real stoicism. 


[256 ] 


“GETTING BIG 


No reason to be over-precipitate. Your 
child need not conform to pattern too soon, but 
tease-inspiring modes must never be persisted 
in. So soon as a boy is made uneasy about his 
appearance, you must steel your heart. How¬ 
ever golden the fleece, it must fall. He may 
come and tell you he is asked, in derision, 
whether he be boy or girl, and once you let 
him associate any mortification with a whim of 
your own, you incur his just indignation. 

With girls there are, in externals at least, no 
such crossways, no occasion deliberately to 
condemn charms. But what, after all, is the 
cutting of curls compared with the necessary 
untying of apron strings ? 

The little cradled creature it was your duty 
to shield from every possible harm—from even 
the smallest draught—has so soon turned into 
the danger-doomed boy, for ever fretting at 
the trammels of your tenderness. 

You must now encourage him to terrify you 
and—by urging him on to the physical pro¬ 
ficiency that inevitably leads to the running of 
risk—be for ever tying yourself to the stake of 
consuming anxiety. 

Such a short while ago and he could not even 
[257 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 


walk without your hand, and came downstairs 
with two feet on each step, and now how far 
out of sight he has run with scarcely one back¬ 
ward glance over his shoulder! 
i Children’s light-hearted indifference as to the 
anxieties they inflict on their elders is part of 
their cruel right. 

To betray your fears for them is to inflate 
them with a sense of their fine rashness, or, 
if they are soft-hearted, to spoil their fun. 

Thoughtlessness for others is one of their 
privileges, and to control her nerves amongst 
the first duties of a mother. 

Though, in imagination, she fall from every 
tree in the garden, she must sternly steel herself, 
and, in unsuspected suffering, let her son go 
the way of all boys in climbing. And, for all 
her dread of the dangers of emulation, how 
necessary always to encourage her son to play 
with companions of his own age. To realize 
how soon your own child is ready for each 
successive extension of liberty is indeed diffi¬ 
cult—there being no automatic age qualifica¬ 
tion for the various degrees of independence. 

I The pace of progress proper to particular 
children varies so extraordinarily. The duty 
[ 258 ] 


“GETTING BIG” 

of her who holds the reins is neither through 
ambition to over-urge, nor through apprehen¬ 
sion unnecessarily to apply the brake. 

However contented with the road her chil¬ 
dren are on, she must always be willing to 
acquiesce in the turning of a corner; however 
fond of the familiar, always be ready to " greet 
the unseen with a cheer.” 


[ 259 ] 


XXVII 


THEIR PHOTOGRAPHS 

“I might immortalize a few 
Of all the myriad graces 
Which Time , while yet they all are new> 

With newer still replaces 

Praed. 

Photographs of one’s children are certainly 
amongst the things which fail to improve on 
acquaintance. Sometimes you are delighted 
with the first sight of the eagerly-awaited 
proofs, in excitement losing your head, to the 
extent of ordering many more copies than the 
family exchequer can afford. 

These are elaborately framed and promi¬ 
nently displayed; but very soon pleasure yields 
to an increasing disappointment, and before 
long the photographs are relegated to the 
seclusion of dusty drawers. 

It is impossible to live with these tantalizing 
travesties, so subtly belying the well-loved 
faces and forms; and the annoyance to the 
nerves is cumulative. The fact that they may 
[ 260 ] 


THEIR PHOTOGRAPHS 

be what strangers call “ speaking likenesses, ” 
makes them all the more trying—their speech 
in time rising to a yell! Expressions and 
attitudes (especially those of children) are part 
of a sequence. To see one particular look, 
one particular pose, arrested and isolated in 
perpetuity, is like hearing one word, detached 
from its context, ceaselessly repeated instead of 
followed by others, or one note struck again 
and again until it becomes a horror. You 
would get as much idea of the spirit of a river 
by only seeing such of its waters as are framed 
between the gates of a lock. 

Since even good photographs, for the most 
part, fail to give lasting satisfaction, what of 
the thoroughly bad ones which cannot even 
please at first sight ? 

“The camera cannot lie” is a statement that 
will not be endorsed by the exasperated mother 
who, after all the stress and strain of taking 
children to be photographed, is presented with 
a dozen libels and a large bill. In nine cases 
out of ten her disappointment will be intense. 

Her children’s faces may be sensitive as the 
surface of a pool—one expression for ever 
chasing after another—but on their photo- 
[ 261 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

graphs this enchanting kaleidoscope is too 
often congealed into a stare of shocked surprise 
or—worse still—into an inane stock smile. 
They might be “registering” horror or em¬ 
barrassment for the Films. The twinkling 
fingers are clenched, and the whole attitude is 
as uncomfortable as it is uncharacteristic. 

Attempts at embellishment have been made 
by “touching up”—eyelashes being exagger¬ 
ated and dimples invented; but where is the 
familiar grace, the shining spirit, the humour 
and the pathos of diminutive dignity ? 

Since—however inadequate the best—you 
must have photographs of your changing chil¬ 
dren, if not to mock you from frames at least 
to be pasted into a book (how often will the 
best in it be your own snapshots enlarged), 
it is worth examining into the causes of the 
recurring failures and trying to avoid the more 
obvious pitfalls of the studio. 

Doubtless even the most unenlightened pho¬ 
tographer has by now discarded the barbaric 
practice of placing the head in a vise to secure 
immobility, but, even nowadays, photography 
is apt to be too much like an operation. 

When I was a child the prospect of being 

[ 262 ] 


THEIR PHOTOGRAPHS 

photographed was very much on a par with 
that of the extraction of a tooth, only one was 
without the standing of a heroine or the pay¬ 
ment of the 2s. 6d. damages. Unnaturally 
dressed and unusually brushed, I was taken 
into a strange Inquisition-like room. There 
an odiously familiar man perched me on some 
peculiarly uncomfortable piece of furniture 
and then petrified me with the startling pre¬ 
diction that “ Pussy ” was about to emerge 
from the camera. 

How vividly I remember the agonized sus¬ 
pense of awaiting her dreaded spring from the 
mysterious box. As a crowning horror to 
strained nerves the photographer then covered 
himself with a black pall, from the grim folds 
of which his voice emerged in the ghastly 
attempt at a playful “ Cuckoo!” Can one 
wonder at the glare of horror so faithfully 
reported by the camera, the staring eyes, the 
opened mouth ? 

Mothers who hope for good results must 
make sure the photographer they choose has 
relinquished such antiquated methods, and in 
place of these shock-tactics he must not have 
adopted the more modern tricks, such as order- 
[ 263 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 


ing the sitter to say “Good-morning, good 
morning, good morning,” in order to make his 
mouth a certain shape. 

So far from the studio being a Chamber of 
Horrors, to very young children a visit to it 
should seem a treat, not an ordeal. Instead 
of being frightened they must be amused. It 
is not sufficient that a child’s head is no longer 
actually fixed, he must be given free play in 
every way, and allowed to roam about until, 
of his own accord, he temporarily settles and 
gives a chance to the photographer, who will 
have had the sense to equip a part of his studio 
like the nursery of one’s dreams. 

The camera should be camouflaged, and the 
room full of enchanting incident calculated to 
lure any child out of the disfiguring mask of 
self-consciousness. Instead of being made to 
blink by having one moth-eaten toy animal 
flourished before its eyes, the child—like a bee 
in a herbaceous border—should stray about at 
will until some imperative attraction rivets his 
attention, evoking that expression of rapt con¬ 
centration which is one of the chief beauties 
of childhood. 

He must never be cajoled by threats or by 
[264 ] 


THEIR PHOTOGRAPHS 


bribery, in fact he should not know the object 
of the visit. Instead of being told to smile, 
because he is going to be photographed, the 
photograph should be taken because he is 
smiling. Expressions, to be natural, must, so 
to speak, be stalked, not driven, and good re¬ 
sults are seldom obtained by a child's atten¬ 
tion being forcibly attracted towards the cam¬ 
era. 

The more engrossed he is in some self-chosen 
occupation the better, and, if the studio is 
properly equipped, attention-traps will abound 
and ample opportunity thus be given for time 
exposures. No great expenditure at Hamley's 
need be involved, for children delight in un¬ 
intentional toys. For instance, a child fasci¬ 
nated by the loud ticking of a Grandfather 
clock gives a splendid opportunity for an at¬ 
tractive photograph, its height making a good 
foil to the smallness of the spellbound form. 
Goldfish swimming round a bowl will also be¬ 
comingly arrest his attention, or the telephone 
receiver held to his ear, and, if he is unself¬ 
consciously amused by looking at himself in a 
long mirror, he will give chances for lovely 
photographs of himself and his reflection. 

[265 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

The great thing is that the mother should 
be on the watch for propitious moments, and 
signal to the photographer, who must be in 
constant readiness to seize his opportunity. 
Any amount of snapshots should be taken, and 
he must be willing to sacrifice a dozen plates 
to secure two good results. For this reason it 
is usually waste of money to go to a cheap 
photographer, who cannot be expected to put 
himself to such an expense. 

The most maddening thing about the con¬ 
ventional photographer is the way in which he 
misses golden opportunities, allowing enchant¬ 
ing expressions to escape, because of some quite 
trivial point, such as the incorrect position of a 
finger. By the time the finger has been drilled, 
the head has turned and all's to do again! 

Taking one child to be photographed is a 
comparatively simple affair, but the mother of 
several will be irresistibly tempted to tackle 
the difficulties of a group. This is nearly 
always doomed to disappointment. It is such 
unusual luck to secure any one photograph in 
which each member of the family comes out 
well, and the simultaneous immobility of several 
children can scarcely look natural. 

[ 266 ] 


THEIR PHOTOGRAPHS 

Dressing children up for the occasion is 
usually a mistake. Unaccustomed finery has 
a disturbing effect, they are much more likely 
to be spontaneous in everyday clothes, and 
provided their lines are good, the material is of 
comparatively little importance. 

Generally a child will have some favourite 
occupation, his picturesque enjoyment in which 
you will wish to record—perhaps paddling or 
gardening; and this being so, of course the gar¬ 
ments appropriate to the occasion should be 
worn. All details as to dress and hair should 
be finally decided on in the dressing-room. 
Once in the studio, there must be no distract¬ 
ing dabs with a brush or pulling on and off of 
hats and socks. 

A very delightful way of photographing a 
baby is on its mother’s or nurse’s knee, envel¬ 
oped in a large towel, as though just lifted 
warm and wet from kicking in his bath. In 
the future this will eloquently recall the cosey 
sheltered atmosphere of babyhood. 

If a child cherishes some temporary totem— 
a Teddy bear or monkey, as the case may be— 
by all means allow him to hold the beloved 
object. Nothing will tend to make him look 
[ 267 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

more characteristic, or better serve to per¬ 
petuate a phase. 

Elder children will probably look best appar¬ 
ently engrossed with some favourite pursuit, 
bending over a book, a paint-box or a draught¬ 
board. 

No doubt when the process becomes cheaper, 
the custom will be to have children cinemato- 
graphed. Thus their everyday life will be 
photographed, and, when they are grown up, 
parents will be able to see them once again at 
play. Children are as inseparable from move¬ 
ment as is running water: without it, their 
“likeness” must remain something of a mock¬ 
ery. No doubt posterity will think our static 
photographs as inadequate for purposes of 
remembrances as we now consider the sil¬ 
houettes of bygone generations. 


[ 268 ] 


XXVIII 


THE CHILDREN’S CHRONICLE 

“ Your own fair youths you care so little for it } 
Smiling towards Heaven , you would not stay the ad¬ 
vances 

Of time and change upon your happiest fancies. 

I keep your golden hour , and will restore it 
If ever , in time to come,you would explore it.” 

Alice Meynell. 

Every mother should be the diligent chroni¬ 
cler of her own family—with the first baby 
starting a book wherein all his physical devel¬ 
opments, and later on his sayings and doings, 
are faithfully reported. This is one of the 
efforts well worth while, and one the neglect of 
which many people deeply regret. 

The purely practical advantages are suffi¬ 
ciently apparent, for, by keeping a careful chart 
of all such matters as weight, length, diet and 
illness, not only will you find it extremely inter¬ 
esting to compare the progress of one child 
with that of another, but you will also be 
[ 269 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 


collecting valuable data with which to supply 
an investigating doctor. The ages at which 
individual children pass all the obvious nursery 
milestones—so eagerly acclaimed, so quickly 
forgotten—are very symptomatic; not to be 
able to answer any inquiry their doctor may 
choose t c make should cover a mother with 
confusion; and to wish to give your second 
child the particular food on which your first 
did so well, but to find yourself unable to re¬ 
member its name, is indeed to feel foolish. 

So never trust to the tablets of your memory, 
but keep a careful log-book of each voyage 
through babyhood. How many mothers, from 
forgetfulness, run on the same rocks twice! 

Such a record will also be of great interest to 
a full-grown child. It will amuse him to know 
at what age he chose to crawl, how early he 
achieved walking, and whether he learnt to talk 
sooner or later than his brother. 

As for his quaint sayings, his picturesque 
phrases and comic questions, he will never tire 
of hearing them quoted. “Tell me about 
when I was little,” is the reiterated demand; 
and how the young rationalist of nine enjoys 
an indulgent smile at the two-year-old self 
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THE CHILDREN’S CHRONICLE 

who refused to have a fire lit on Christmas Eve 
for fear of Father Christmas burning his toes 
as he came down the chimney. 

But never, on any account, let a small child 
know you are keeping a book about him— 
least of all writing down his remarks. In 
becoming facetious, he may well cease to be 
funny, bringing on himself the crushing re¬ 
proof, “Don’t try to be clever!” 

A child’s wit is nearly always unintentional— 
any playing to the gallery generally a failure; 
but his early gift of expression, his power—by 
felicitous phrasing—of reviving tired words to 
pristine freshness, his directness of description 
and instinct for the exact epithet, are often so 
startling as to raise the highest hopes for his 
future—hopes, however, usually doomed to 
disappointment, for in a few years freshness 
of style dries up with loss of the divine gift of 
wonder, and the tongues of angels settle down 
to the most commonplace vocabularies, just 
as the most irresistibly quaint children may 
grow into hopelessly normal men. 

Babyhood, alas! holds practically no pledge 
for maturity. 

Pope tells us he “lisped in numbers, for the 
[ 271 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

numbers came”; but, owing to the negligence 
of mothers, how little we know of the early 
promptings of poets—how scarce our evidence 
as to any childish manifestations of the gift of 
speech. How interested we should be to know 
the first sentences spoken by “ stupendous 
Shakespeare,” or some of the baby murmurings 
of “majestic Milton.” So see to it that no 
precious phrases prattled by potential poets on 
your own knee be lost to posterity for lack of a 
recording mother. 

Merely to write down bare facts and quote 
actual sayings is easy enough, but the more 
ambitious biographer will strive to fill in the 
outlines, and, by careful description, to hoard 
passing impressions and emotions. Such per¬ 
sistent chronicling is one of the few ways of 
protecting your life from the devastating course 
of “Time's hurrying chariot”—remembrance 
being the one small spoke that can be thrust 
into its whirling wheels. 

In the autumn of her life, circumstances 
usually conspire to make a mother turn more 
and more to contemplation of the past. For 
her emotional sustenance she is liable to rely 
increasingly on her unassailable memories. 

[ 272 ] 


THE CHILDREN’S CHRONICLE 

So let her, in the heyday of motherhood, 
prudently provide for her future by carefully 
garnering every available detail of her children’s 
lives* Not to try and describe the vanishing 
phases of their personalities in writing, is as 
improvident as neglecting to photograph their 
so swiftly changing forms and faces. How 
many mothers—desperately attempting to make 
material things do more than they can—will 
cherish locks of hair (so soon to fade)—out¬ 
grown garments—even the teeth of their chil¬ 
dren, and yet all the while fail to preserve the 
memory of their adorable sayings, quaint im¬ 
aginings and lovable ways. 

Even the most loving memory is strangely 
untrustworthy—your immediate impressions of 
your children as they now appear are probably 
,so distinct, so startlingly vivid, that it requires 
a considerable effort of the imagination to re¬ 
mind yourself that, in your mental pictures of 
them, the colours will be for ever fading, the 
outlines blurring, as one image usurps another, 
the present always effacing the past. 

Is it possible things so strangely sweet in 
experience can ever grow blurred and be 
shrouded in oblivion ? 

[273 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

Curious and pathetic the powerlessness of 
even the most intense appreciation to embalm 
the enjoyed and fix the fleeting. 

So kaleidoscopic is childish personality that 
it is difficult to keep any sense of the abiding 
in the transient, and to recognize its changes 
as different phases in one and the same de¬ 
velopment. 

You are so soon robbed of your baby by, as 
it were, a changeling child, in his turn almost 
to disappear through the process of growth. 
To see the baby in the child and the child in 
the man—to miss none of the pathos and 
humour of the blended perception—is the 
bitter-sweet privilege of a mother; and the 
more complete her gallery of pictures, the wider 
the vision for that inward eye—the bliss of 
solitude—the greater her immunity against 
chance and changing time. 

Memories are the savings from life—mother¬ 
hood's sinking-fund against old age, when the 
present may have little or nothing further to 
bring in. A careful record of passing events 
and impressions will be a safe investment, to 
which she will be able to have recourse when¬ 
ever she wishes to revisit empty scenes and 
[ 274 } 


THE CHILDREN’S CHRONICLE 

recapture past emotions, the very memory of 
which might otherwise have vanished as irre¬ 
trievably as dew in the sunshine. 

These considerations should in themselves 
be sufficient motive to urge her to the trifling 
task of keeping a children’s chronicle: added 
to which, unless she be an exception to her sex, 
the hope and belief that, in so doing, she is 
providing valuable material for the National 
Biography as well as for the philology of the 
future will probably be some time in dying. 
Considering how apt women are to think their 
own offspring conspicuously exceptional, it is 
all the more surprising that so few amongst 
them should take upon themselves the office of 
historian. It is, indeed, difficult not to regard 
your own child as an infant prodigy, the early 
achievements of the most normal of babies 
seeming so miraculous that it is scarcely pos¬ 
sible not to gape in gratified astonishment at 
such startling progress. 

You have perpetually to remind yourself 
that, not only was this same astonishing ca¬ 
pacity to distinguish one thing from another, 
to overcome the stupendous difficulties of 
speech, and to learn to read and write, given to 
[275 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 

the very dullest of your acquaintances, but also 
the same enterprising audacity to conquer the 
difficulties and dangers of standing and walk¬ 
ing. 

Provided you keep it up to date, such a book 
is, after all, very little trouble. Writing up 
arrears is, of course, a great strain, particularly 
in the case of the funny remarks inevitable from 
all children. Write these down straight from 
the Mint. Very likely you are so intensely 
amused by them at the time that you cannot 
believe they will ever escape from your memory; 
but how often you find yourself wondering 
whatever it was that So and so said the other 
day ? In vain you search your own and other 
people’s memories. The delicious absurdity or 
the lovely phrase is irretrievably lost. 

It will be necessary to enlist your nurse as 
an ally, for she will often be the only witness 
of memorable conversations. Encourage her 
to report any of the children’s sayings which 
strike her as either peculiar or pleasing. Give 
her a book for the purpose, and beg her to 
write in it daily, and show it to you at intervals. 
Don’t let her trust to her memory, or not only 
will precious phrases be lost, but she will also 
[ 276 ] 


THE CHILDREN’S CHRONICLE 


be liable to take the opportunity of your visits 
to the nursery to quote the children’s remarks 
in front of them. 

Remember that, in addition to the certain 
benefit to yourself and the possible one to 
humanity, you will all the while be laying up a 
treasure trove of interest and amusement for 
your children themselves. 

Nothing so tickles and touches one as any 
anecdote about one’s own childhood. A pe¬ 
culiar expression of almost fatuous tenderness 
flits across the most life-beaten face at any 
reminder of some half-forgotten episode of 
infancy. 

I can even imagine a well-kept book of the 
kind I advise doing much invaluable rescue 
work. The vivid conjuring up of the poignant 
past would often be potent to thaw the frozen 
and rivet the broken in the neglected pres¬ 
ent. 

How easy for a pompous estrangement 
between grown-up brothers to dissolve in 
laughter, at the reawakened remembrance of 
some forgotten lovable foolishness shared by 
the diminutive selves of long, long ago. 

How often to remember would be to forgive! 

[277 ] 


THE CHILD AT HOME 


There could be no more inspired prayer than 
“Lord, keep my memory green”—no better 
family safeguard than the cultivation of re¬ 
membrance. 


[ 278 ] 









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